Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy

by Marian L Thorpe

  But at the end, as we were finishing the oatcakes and apples, Perras cleared his throat. “Tonight, we will not have our usual entertainments after supper, for there is something you all should hear: the words of the treaty our Teannasach and the Southern Emperor have signed. So, let us have the table cleared, and, I think, wine poured for everyone, and then I will read the treaty to you.”

  “Do we ask the kitchen-folk to join us?” Jordis asked, already gathering plates.

  Perras shook his head. “No. I will gather the torpari tomorrow, and they will hear it then.”

  Cillian went to one of the cupboards and brought back goblets that caught the firelight, making several trips with the fragile objects. As he placed them on the table, I realized they were glass, something I had never seen except for some tiny, square, medicine bottles my mother had. From the same cupboard, he brought a flagon made of glazed pottery, and poured a small amount of dark wine into each glass. He did not distribute them.

  Ardan moved a candle from the centre of the table closer to Perras, and handed him a tied scroll. The older man loosened the ties, and unrolled it, reading the words to himself. I saw him nod, slightly, and then he looked at me.

  “Lena,” he said, “you among us, save for Ardan and Gregor, will have heard these words before. When I have read them, I would appreciate it if you would tell us how they were received, by the gathered soldiers of the Empire. I will ask Ardan to do the same, for our men.”

  “I will do my best,” I murmured, glad of the forewarning.

  “‘Herein are the terms of the truce between Linrathe and the Southern Empire, agreed this first day of spring at the White Fort, between Donnalch, Teannasach of Linrathe, and Callan, Emperor of the South,’” Perras read. I listened, hearing the words again, letting them wash over me as I watched the faces around the table: Dagney intent, focused; Sorley frowning occasionally; Jordis nodding. Only Cillian showed no reaction, his face set, although a muscle jumped in his jaw at the mention of the Eastern Empire.

  “‘The penalty for the breaking of this truce by any man or woman, from Linrathe or the Southern Empire, is death for the transgressors, who also risk the lives of the hostage of their land. Remember this, and maintain the peace.’” Perras paused. “It is signed by both the Teannasach and the Emperor,” he finished. No one spoke.

  “The wine, now, I think,” Perras said. Cillian and Sorley rose and distributed the glasses, Cillian serving the end of the table away from me. I watched how Perras cradled his, cupping the bowl in his hand gently. I copied him, the glass feeling cool and smooth against my hand. I held it lightly, afraid of its fragility.

  “To a temporary peace,” Perras said, “and may a lasting one arise.”

  “To peace,” Dagney said, and took a sip of her wine. The rest of us followed her lead. The wine, rich and smooth, warmed my throat. I put the glass down carefully.

  “Now, Lena,” Perras said, his voice conversational. “What can you tell us of the reaction, from the Empire’s men? And women,” he amended.

  “I had only a few minutes to see,” I said slowly, “and you must remember that soldiers are trained not to show reaction to orders, and the truce, read out by our Emperor, is an order. So, I may be guessing here, a bit, but what I think I saw was relief. We have been at war for over a year; many have died, and food is scarce. I think nearly everyone wanted and welcomed a truce.”

  “And did you?” Perras asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “For the same reasons.” And because I had begun to think the war unwinnable. I did not say that aloud. I suspected many on the Wall felt the same.

  “Ardan?” Perras said. “What did you see and hear?”

  “Much the same,” he answered. “I also saw pride, when the Teannasach spoke of a treaty of equals. They—we—have great faith in him, and look to this as a beginning of change for Linrathe, in our dealings with both the Southern Empire and with Varsland.”

  “Lena,” Perras asked, “what will happen now, for your soldiers? Where will they go? The treaty speaks of returning to fields and villages, but that is not your way, is it?”

  I shook my head. “No,” I said, “not for the men.”

  Niav leaned forward. “Is it true,” she asked, her voice hushed, “that women do not live with men in your land, by law? And that they do all the work of men?”

  “It is,” I answered. I saw her eyes widen in the firelight.

  “But why?’ she asked.

  I glanced at Perras. “Go ahead,” he said. “The others know what our history teaches; it will be instructive for us all to hear what you were taught about Partition.”

  “I would have told a different story, not too long ago,” I said. “But briefly, then: many long years ago, men and women of our Empire did live together, much as I imagine your people do here. But military service was mandatory, and the Emperor of the time, Lucian, wished to expand his Empire, except that he needed the approval of the people to do this: those were the laws, at the time. Village councils were in the hands of women, as so many men were away so much of the year, and those councils overall did not want the Empire to be expanded at the cost of more lives. So, the Emperor called for an assembly, and, after long discussion and debate, a proposal was made that divided the laws that govern men and women: women would live in the villages, farm and fish and provide food, much as they already did, and be governed by their councils. Men would fight: the army would govern them. It is called the Partition Assembly, as it divided not just our laws, but our lives.”

  I glanced at Niav, watching me, wide-eyed. I took a breath. “What I did not know, until this past year, is how many objected. For many people of the Empire, men and women, Partition was not the answer. But by our laws, those people either had to submit to this new decree of the Empire, or choose exile. Many chose exile, and most, I believe, crossed into these lands. Some of us in this room may share common ancestors; your Teannasach and our Emperor may be distant cousins, for all I know. But to live separate lives has been our lot for twenty generations or more, and it seems normal to us now.” Or it had, until the invasion from Leste. “Does that answer you question?” I asked Niav.

  “Yes,” she said. “So, you can do everything? Build a wall? Shoe a horse?”

  I laughed. “Well, not me personally. But in my village, in Tirvan, there were women who did those things, and who built boats and houses, and ploughed and harvested the fields. I fished, with my partner, from our boat.”

  “And you can fight,” Sorley said. “After all, you are a soldier now.”

  “Yes,” I answered. “I can fight, and I have. I can handle a sword, and a bow, but my specialised training is with the secca, the knife, in close combat.”

  “Sorley,” Perras said quietly, “we are diverging from our purpose here tonight, with these questions. You will recall I asked Lena what would happen now, for the soldiers of the Southern Empire.”

  “My intent was to remind us that there are now women among the Empire’s soldiers,” Sorley said, “and that perhaps what happens for male and female soldiers might be different.”

  “As it will be,” I agreed, not waiting for Perras to speak. “Women will return to their home villages, to the work they left. The men will return to their duties, whether that is teaching cadets, or patrolling the Wall or the Durrains, or building roads, training horses, or making swords, I suppose.”

  “But they will continue to be soldiers, training and planning, for the next six months, while our men will not, for the most part,” Cillian said. “Which could be giving the Empire an advantage.”

  “Do not underestimate the Teannasach,” Ardan said sharply. “Do you think he would not have thought of that?”

  “The Southern Empire has had professional soldiers for many generations,” Perras pointed out. “And yet we have fought to an impasse. Will one summer change that?”

  “Is not the point,” Jordis said, “that there should be no more fighting? The Teannasach and the Southern Emperor w
ill spend this summer talking, looking for a permanent peace. And another winter war? Remember what Halmar wrote:

  war in winter sends sorrow soaring;

  hunger hurts, cold kills:

  ravens rejoice, wolves wait;

  men moan, women wail:

  death in darkness, glory gone…

  “And if the intent is to find peace, then perhaps the Teannasach did not see harm in the soldiers of the Southern Empire returning to their usual duties?” she finished. Her insight surprised me—unfairly so, I admitted to myself, as I barely knew her.

  “Do you think the Teannasach can negotiate a permanent peace, under the conditions he has laid down? An agreement of equals?” Perras asked. It was Sorley who answered.

  “If he does,” he said, “then surely it would challenge the terms of our peace with Varsland, with the Marai?” he said. No one responded.

  “Forgive me,” I said, “but I do not understand. What are the terms of the peace with Varsland?”

  Dagney answered. “Linrathe pays tribute, or tax, if you like, to Varsland,” she said. “In return, the Marai—the ship-warriors of Varsland—do not raid into Sorham, and leave landholders such as Sorley's father, and my brothers, in peace. It was not always so.”

  “Is that why there is another Wall? The Sterre?” I asked, remembering the map.

  “It is not why it was built,” Dagney answered, “but now, yes, it defines the border between Sorham and Linrathe. The Marai do not cross it, although they may enter Sorham for peaceful purposes, seeking trade or marriage. People of Sorham travel north, too, to Varsland or the islands, for the same reasons. My own mother was born on Naermest, one of the islands of Raske, or the Raske Hoys, as they are named there. Many—if not most—of the folk of Sorham carry the blood of the Marai.”

  “So,” I said slowly, working through it, “Linrathe has a peace treaty with Varsland, but by the terms of this treaty Linrathe is,” I hesitated, looking for the right word, “subservient to Varsland. The Marai are paid to leave Sorham in peace. But is it Linrathe, or Sorham, who pays the tribute? Who does Sorham belong to, if not itself?”

  “Long years ago,” Perras said, “Sorham was conquered by Varsland, if conquered is the right word. The Marai moved south from Varsland, settling on some unclaimed lands, raiding into claimed lands, taking wives and fathering children. But folk also moved north from Linrathe, especially when our numbers swelled at the time of Partition in the Southern Empire. Conflict ensued, and after some years the current agreement was reached: the Marai withdrew with the promise of peace, leaving Sorham to Linrathe, for a price.”

  “I believe our Teannasach thinks,” Cillian interrupted, “that if he can negotiate a treaty of equals with the Southern Emperor, then it will be time to challenge the terms of our treaty with the Marai. Their king is old; there will be a new one soon, so what better time?”

  “Aye,” Ardan spoke softly. “That is how I see it, too.”

  “If our two countries find peace,” Cillian said, “then is not the very reason for the Southern Empire’s army gone? What happens to an army when there is no enemy to fight?”

  No one replied. I took another mouthful of wine. Candles and shadows flickered in a small movement of air, from beneath the door or a loose window. Cillian was wrong, I thought. Enemies could still arise, as Leste had.

  Perras broke the silence. “I think that is enough discussion for this evening,” he said. “Perhaps one song, before we retire? Lena, is there a song of the Empire you could sing for us?”

  I had not expected this. “I have not much of a voice,” I said, stalling.

  “No matter,” Dagney said. “Sorley, would you fetch a ladhar? Sorley will follow you on the instrument,” she explained, as he went toward the practice room, “or accompany you, if the tune is one we know.”

  “I hope you can recognize it, if it is,” I said. I wondered what to sing, reviewing in my mind the songs sung at Tirvan. Only one stood out.

  Sorley returned, and moved a chair back from the table. He ran his fingers over the strings of the ladhar, and adjusted one tuning peg. Then he nodded. I stood.

  “This is not a song of my village,” I said. “I learned it from our potter, Tice, who was from Karst, at the southernmost reaches of the Empire.” I took a breath, and began.

  The swallows gather, summer passes,

  The grapes hang dark and sweet;

  Heavy are the vines,

  Heavy is my heart,

  Endless is the road beneath my feet.

  I heard the notes of the ladhar, as mournful as the song. I glanced at Sorley; he nodded. I continued, the instrument now in time with my voice.

  The sun is setting, the moon is rising,

  The night is long and sweet;

  I am gone at dawn.

  I am gone at day,

  Endless is the road beneath my feet.

  The cold is deeper, the winters longer,

  Summer is short but sweet;

  I will remember,

  I'll not forget you,

  Endless is the road beneath my feet.

  Sorley plucked a few more notes from the ladhar, letting them fade away into the night. Silence held, for a minute.

  “Thank you,” Dagney said. “The tune is known to us, but not those words. Would you write them down for us, Lena? And anything you know about the song?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Tice said she had learned it from a retired general of the Empire. And I heard it sung at the Emperor's winter camp, but that is all I know. I think it is a southern song, though, because of the line about the grapes.”

  “You may be right,” Dagney said. “You will find paper and ink, and a pen, in the box on the table in your room. If you should run short, just ask for more. And now, I think, it is time for us to retire. Lena, you will hear the breakfast bell in the morning; before that, your time is your own, as is the time now until you choose to sleep.” She stood, as did Perras. “Good night to you all,” she said.

  “Good night,” Perras echoed. “Don't stay up too late, children.” A smile flickered on Cillian's face as he stood to fetch Perras a candle, a smile that brought again the feeling that I knew him from somewhere. He saw my eyes on him, and the smile vanished. Perras, organizing himself with candle and stick, looked from Cillian to me. “Cillian,” he murmured. “Would you light me to my room? I find myself unsteady tonight.” He handed the candle back to the younger man, and together they walked slowly to Perras's study door.

  Ardan had also risen. “Bed for me too,” he announced, “I've an early start. Sleep well, all.” Gregor, with a nod to us, accompanied his commanding officer.

  No one spoke for a moment, until Sorley broke the silence. “Cillian holds a grudge against the Empire,” he said quietly. “It's not personal, Lena.”

  “I'm glad to know I wasn't imagining it,” I said tartly. “Am I allowed to know what that grudge is?”

  The students looked at each other. “I suppose so,” Sorley answered. “We all know. His mother—she was very young—died after giving birth to him. His father was a soldier of the Empire, but whoever he was, he never returned to see how his lover had fared. Cillian has not forgiven him, and, by extension, the Empire.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” Jordis said, “if he had known you were coming, he might have had time to prepare himself.”

  “I think the Comiádh is speaking to him now, about this,” Sorley said quietly. He stretched. “I am going to practice the ladhar,” he said. “Niav, do you want to join me?”

  The younger girl shook her head. “I would rather talk to Lena,” she replied, and then shot a doubtful look my way. “If that is all right?”

  Did I want to talk? Inwardly I sighed. But I had had my time alone, and my journal, and I did not think I had anything more to write tonight. “Of course.”

  Sorley grinned. “Niav loves stories,” he said. “She'll turn them into songs, though, Lena; be warned.” He left us, raising
a hand in farewell as he did.

  “What would you like to know?” I said to the two young women sitting with me.

  “Everything,” Niav burst out. “What your village is like, and how you learned to fight, and about your travels. And how it feels, to be told you must live in these villages, and not marry.”

  “That is too much for one night,” I said slowly. Is that how she sees us?

  “Tell us about your travels,” Jordis suggested. “Tell us about Casilla—you have been there?”

  “How do you know about Casilla?” The question surprised me, but I welcomed the change of topic.

  “It's on the map,” Niav said, as if it were obvious. “We learn the geography of your country too, as well as ours, and Varsland.” She sounded put out, as if I had under-estimated her. Then again, I thought, I had.

  Casilla. How to begin? “When the wall was breached—” I stopped. “When it was opened to your soldiers,” I amended, “I was at the Emperor's winter camp, for the Midwinter celebrations and proclamations. As the army prepared to ride north, I was asked to ride as messenger, to the southern villages, to ask women who were willing to ride north too. That task took me some time, and when I was done I stayed for a while at Karst, the grape-growing village of the south.”

  “Why did you not ride north?” Niav demanded.

  “Hush, Niav,” Jordis said. “Lena will tell us what she wishes. Do not pry.”

  “It's all right,” I said. “I did not know, yet, if I wanted to fight again. Defending my village was one thing; it was personal, and those threatened were my family and my friends. I was not yet sure I could raise weapons in a larger cause.”

  I remembered my conversations—arguments, really—with Halle, who had seen no choice but to ride north. Nor had she wanted one: she wished to be a soldier, and could not understand my reluctance. I had not liked her then, and could not tell her how my actions as a cohort-leader, which had led to the death of my friend and cohort-second Tice, had made me doubt myself. I did not want to tell this to Niav and Jordis, tonight.