Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy

by Marian L Thorpe

  “So,” I said, resuming my tale, “I stayed in Karst for some weeks. My cousin Garth had a son there, and I stayed with the woman raising him—his aunt—and another friend. The child's grandmother, however, made life difficult for the child and his aunt, and when she decided to go to Casilla, I chose to go with her.” I paused.

  “Casilla is walled,” I continued, “with enormous gates to let in the trader's carts. The gates and the watchtowers are of stone, and they gleam white in the sunshine, and the flag of the Empire flies at each tower, snapping in the wind from the sea. Inside the gates there is a wide road, running down to the harbours: it divides the city in two, into the women's section, and the men's. At one point, there is a wide square where the market is held.” I stopped, unsure if I was being clear, trying to marshal my thoughts.

  “Harbours?” Jordis said. “More than one?”

  “Yes. The fishing harbour, on the women's side, and the quays and anchorage for the ships of the Empire, on the men's side, and between them the traders' quays.” Saying this, I remembered the scream of gulls, and the shouts of men and women working on and around the boats, and the salt, pungent smell of the sea and of fish.

  “This divided life.” Jordis said, “It's hard to imagine. Everything must be duplicated, then? Cookhouses and bakeries, shops and inns?”

  I nodded. “Yes. There are two cities, really, and the separation is maintained, except at the market, and during Festival. I had wondered, too, how it might work, but the rules of Partition are held.”

  “How strange,” Jordis murmured. Niav said nothing, but instead sang a stanza, softly:

  O we forbid ye, maidens all,

  with flowers in your hair,

  To go or come by Kertonhall,

  for young Fintaill is there.

  The tune was haunting. “That's lovely,” I said. “Is that from a danta?”

  “Yes,” Niav answered. “It's from a long song, that tells how a maiden won her true love back from the fair folk, angering their queen in doing so. The Lady Dagney says it is very old, and that we share the story with the Marai. I will learn it in their language, soon. But how did you know about the danta? “

  “Sorley told me,” I explained.

  “Tell us more about Casilla,” Jordis said, a shade impatiently, I thought.

  “On the main gates,” I said, “there is an inscription, in no language I know. It says ‘Casil e imitaran ne’.”

  “‘Casil this is not’,” said a voice behind us. We all turned to see Cillian standing there. He repeated the words I had spoken, but his inflections made them sound very different. “Or,” he continued, “‘Casil is not equalled here’, if you prefer a more elegant translation.”

  “So, the old woman was right,” I said, half under my breath.

  “What old woman?” Niav demanded.

  “In Casilla,” I said slowly, “those words are generally taken to mean ‘There is only one Casilla’, but an old woman I met there told me they meant exactly what Cillian just said: ‘Casil this is not’.”

  “And they do,” Cillian said. He pulled out a chair and sat. “Do you not learn Casilan?” he asked.

  “No,” Jordis said sharply. “There were no languages taught in Lena's village. We talked about that over tea, before you arrived.”

  “And it would seem that is true throughout the country, if the inhabitants of Casilla believe the gate inscription to mean ‘There is only one Casilla’,” Cillian commented. “Casilla, Lena, is a diminutive, meaning ‘Little Casil’. Perhaps once it was meant to rival Casil, but the gate inscription indicates that someone realized it did not.”

  “And where is Casil?” I asked. But as I spoke I realized the answer. “In the Eastern Empire?”

  Cillian raised an eyebrow.

  “So, you have learned some things,” he said. He was, I thought, striving to be polite. I wondered what Perras had said to him. I shook my head.

  “Not really,” I admitted. “I heard of it only in the last weeks; it was something Donnalch—your Teannasach,” I added, stumbling again over the unfamiliar word, “and our Emperor spoke of at the White Fort. They gave an oath to ‘the Empire Unconquered’. Darel—the other hostage, a cadet—told me it meant the Eastern Empire.”

  “Is that all he told you?”

  “Cillian, is this not what the Comiádh will instruct Lena in?” Jordis said quietly.

  He looked at her. A small muscle in his jaw twitched. He nodded.

  “Jordis is right,” he said. “You should discuss this with Perras, not with me.”

  “No!” I said, too forcefully. “Please, can't we talk about it now? It has been puzzling me.”

  Cillian sighed. “Tell us what you know, then.”

  I thought back to what Darel had said. “There was an Empire in the East,” I began slowly, “and a Supreme Emperor, to whom the Emperor here owed allegiance. He—the Supreme Emperor—ruled from a city in the East—that would be Casil?” Cillian nodded. “And then one day all trade and communication—all contact—stopped. But the Emperor and the troops still pay homage to the memory.” I shook my head. “That's all I remember.”

  “It's a fair summary,” Cillian said. “But Perras will tell you more, and be glad of your interest.” He stretched, and ran a hand through his hair.

  “Was Linrathe part of that Empire?” I asked, remembering what had puzzled me at the time.

  Cillian shook his head. “Not that I was taught,” he said. “Ask Perras, Lena; he has the stories. I am no lover of Empires, lost or current.” The chill had returned to his voice. He stood. The chair scraped on the flagged floor. “Sleep well, daltai. I will see you at breakfast.” He stalked away, not to the stairs, but to the door. A breeze, a taste of night air, and he was gone.

  Chapter Five

  I slept well. I had gone to bed shortly after Cillian left, pleading fatigue, and had fallen asleep almost immediately. I woke to the chatter of sparrows outside my window, and faint sounds from the house.

  Downstairs, I helped Jordis and Sorley bring food from the kitchen to the hall: bowls of thick oat porridge, jugs of milk, dried fruit. Niav took a tray to Perras’s rooms, Dagney explaining quietly to me that he was stiff and sore in the mornings, and preferred to eat alone. There was little conversation over the meal, at least until the food was finished and most of us were drinking a second cup of tea.

  “Now, daltai,” Dagney said, using the same plural of ‘student’ that Cillian had the night before, “most of you know your duties or lessons for the morning. Lena, Perras wishes you to go to him, but he will not be ready for you for another hour, and unlike the others you do not have work to be getting on with. So, Sorley, will you take Niav for her lesson in the first hour, and then I can work with Lena?”

  “Of course, my lady.” The others excused themselves, heading off to work, practice, or lessons. Cillian had said nothing during the meal, and did not look my way as he left. I waited for Dagney to speak.

  “Shall we go to my rooms?” she asked, rising. I followed her from the hall and through the music practice room, into the teaching room. Like Perras's room, this appeared to be her study as well as her teaching space. Many bookcases stood against the walls, but here the shelves held instruments as well as books. Larger instruments hung from pegs. She gestured me to a chair facing her desk.

  “We had spoken of you learning at least the basics of our language, and perhaps that of Varsland. Does this seem sensible to you, Lena?

  “It does,” I agreed, “at least, it does for your language. I am not sure about Varsland's, not at the same time, unless they are very similar?”

  “They share some words,” she said, smiling, “but, I see your point. You have not learned another language, even a few words, at all?”

  I thought back to the weeks guarding the Lestian captives. Had I picked up any words? Not really, I admitted to myself.

  “No, my lady.” I explained about the Lestians. “I don't think I even thought to try to learn
their words. I just let their captain translate.”

  “So,” she said, “it is unlikely you have a predisposition to learning languages. But no matter; it will be more work for you, but far from impossible. You are older than most who learn another language, and that will slow you down. You are in for a challenge.” She smiled. “Let us begin, then. We will start, as you did so long ago, with the letters and the alphabet—we do not use different letters than you do, do not worry—but we do pronounce them differently, and use them in different combinations and with different accents, and those are the first things you should learn.” From a drawer of her desk she brought out a written sheet and handed it to me.

  For perhaps forty-five minutes I learned the alphabet again. I expected to just say the sounds, but Dagney had me think about how my mouth’s muscles and my tongue worked to make the sounds, and what happened when I used them differently. “Good,” she said finally. “You can practice with Niav: she can correct your pronunciation, and you hers in your language. But there are three words I would like you to learn before we end. Can you guess what they are?”

  I thought about what I would want to be able to say. Food? Water? But I could point to those, or make signs.

  “Please and thank you?” I hazarded.

  “Very good!” Dagney said. “Yes, those two, and one more—‘sorry’. Those three allow you to be polite, and good manners smooth many an awkward discourse.”

  “They do, my lady,” I answered, thinking of Casyn, always thoughtful, always polite.

  “So,” she directed, “repeat these after me, and then try to use them as often as is reasonable. ‘Please’is ‘allech'I’.”

  “Allech'i,” I repeated.

  “Further back in your throat,” Dagney prompted. I tried again, generating a more liquid sound and a nod from Dagney.

  ‘Thank you’—meas, and ‘sorry’—forla—took up another quarter of an hour. Finally, Dagney sat back.

  “Enough for today. You have been a good student. Go to the kitchen now, and ask for tea with honey; your throat needs it. Perras will be expecting you, but have your tea, and do whatever else you need to, before going to him.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” I said. She smiled in response, but I could see her mind was already elsewhere, her eyes slipping down to a musical score on her desk. I closed the door quietly behind me and went, as directed, to the kitchen. It was empty but for one woman, who sat at the long table peeling root vegetables.

  “Hello,” I said. I didn't remember seeing her earlier. “I'm Lena. The Lady Dagney sent me here for tea with honey, for my throat.”

  “Yes, my lady,” she replied, her accent thick. She stood and went to the stove, moving a kettle forward and opening the door to give the coals inside a poke. She reached for a mug, and from a canister added something dried. The kettle sang; she poured hot water into the mug, and a spoonful of honey, before handing it to me.

  “Meas,” I hoped my accent was passable. She smiled. “Allech'i, may I know your name?” I added.

  “Isa,” she answered. “I am Isa, my lady.”

  “Meas, Isa,” I said. “But in my land, I am not addressed as 'my lady'. Just by my name, Lena.”

  “But you are in our land now, my lady, and I must. It is the custom.”

  I nodded. “Yes, of course. Forla. I should have realized.” I should have, too, I thought, hoping I hadn't embarrassed Isa. But when I glanced at her, she had returned to scraping parsnips, unbothered. I took a tentative sip of the tea: rosehip, the traditional winter tea for colds and sore throats. The heat and sweetness felt good on my slightly scratchy throat. I stood awkwardly, not knowing if I should stay or go. Isa looked up.

  “Sit, if you would like, my lady,” she said. I pulled out a chair and sat, cradling the mug. Isa smiled at me. “Are you here to learn music, like my niece?”

  “Your niece?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Niav,” she answered. “She is my sister's youngest. She came for a visit last year, and the Lady Dagney heard her telling stories and singing to the little ones, and offered her a place here at the Ti'ach. We were all pleased, but I lost my helper with the babies.” She laughed. “But there are always girls for that! So, are you here to learn the songs and stories?”

  “No,” I said. “I will learn history while I am here, with the Comiádh. But he and the Lady Dagney thought I should learn your language as well, so I will be working with her as well.” I took another swallow of the tea, thinking back to what Kebhan had said when he too had called me ‘lady’—‘a woman of rank.’ Did being a pupil at a Ti'ach, a dalta, confer rank? Or was it my status as hostage, guarded by a man of the Teannasach's troops? I thought of asking Isa, but somehow it did not seem appropriate.

  “Like Cillian, then,” Isa said. I noted the lack of any honorific.

  “A better balance,” I said lightly. “Two students for the Comiádh, three for Lady Dagney.” A thought struck me. “Are there usually so few students, Isa?”

  “Nae,” she answered, shaking her head. “There should be half-a-dozen more, but the war took them; the boys away to fight, were they old enough, or to home to do the work of those who went. The girls also went for home, to be another pair of hands on the farms, or in the workshops. So, we are not what we should be, here at Ti'ach na Perras,” she finished, her voice sorrowful. “Only the lady Jordis, and Niav and Cillian, and the lord Sorley—and I hear he is soon for home too, and now you, my lady.”

  Well, I thought, I had my answers, to both questions. I finished my tea and put the mug on the table. “Meas, Isa,” I said. “I should go to the Comiádh now; he is expecting me.”

  “Allech'i, wait a moment, my lady.” She got up. “I will make tea for you to take to him. Would you like a bitty more, as well?”

  I declined, and in a minute or two left the kitchen carrying a steaming mug for Perras. I knocked at his door.

  “Come,” he called. I opened the door and went in.

  “I have brought you tea, Comiádh,” I said.

  “Ah, Lena, welcome,” he said, from his seat at the table. “And thank you for bringing my tea. You have had some?” I nodded, and he took the mug from me and placed it on the desk before him. A banked fire warmed and scented the room.

  “I have been transcribing the history,” he told me. “Now you are here, I suggest we do this: I will read to you what I have transcribed, and you will follow along in the history, and tell me if I have made an error. And please, ask questions as we go. Do you think we can do that?” He handed me the volume of Colm's history, gesturing to another chair at the table.

  “Of course, Comiádh,” I answered. I sat across from him, and opened the book. He took a long swallow of his tea, and straightened the papers on the table.

  “To begin,” he said, and began to read.

  “‘In the third year of the reign of the Emperor Lucian, when there had been silence from the East for many years, consideration was given to the expansion of the Empire's lands, as the villages and towns grew crowded. The Emperor's eyes turned to the northern lands, bleak and mountainous as they were, and he offered free land there to any man who would join him in the conquest.’”

  Perras read the words, but it was Colm's voice I heard. Tears pricked my eyes. I did not need to check the text in front of me; I knew these opening words off by heart. I realized Perras was waiting.

  I nodded. “That is correct,” I said.

  “Any questions?” he asked. I shook my head.

  “Not now.” I wanted to ask about the East, but it seemed too soon.

  Perras nodded and continued to read. This time I did drop my eyes to the book I held.

  “‘Many joined Lucian, for the offer of land was tempting. But they did not find the conquest of the northern lands easy, for the inhabitants knew well the hills and valleys, forests and caves, and used them to their advantage to repel Lucian's army.’”

  “Go on,” I said. Perras cleared his throat. His voice, I thought, was strong for a man
of his age.

  “‘After several years of skirmishes and small battles, a spring came that was cold and wet throughout the land, and crops and cattle suffered.’”

  “Stop.” He looked up. “The text says, ‘both cold and wet,’ I explained, and you read ‘cold and wet’.” He nodded.

  “Thank you.” He made the correction before continuing to read.

  “‘But there were many men to feed in the troops, and Lucian, his thoughts fixed on the northern lands, decreed a higher tax of food from the villages and farms. The headwomen of the villages said 'No' to this tax, almost as one voice, arguing thus: You have taken our strongest men; the rain and cold are unceasing; how are we to feed you? They demanded an Assembly, and the Emperor, bound by the laws of the Empire, had to grant it.’”

  “Now I do have a question.”

  “Yes?” he encouraged.

  “What Colm wrote here, that the tax of food from the villages came before the Partition vote—this isn't what I learned, at Tirvan. There, I learned that the army fed itself for some years, before taxing the villages.”

  “You did not ask Colm about this?” Perras asked.

  “No,” I answered. “We talked of other things that day. I had meant to,” I finished.

  “Someone wrote once that those are the saddest words that can be said,” Perras said gently. “I too had meant to talk more to Colm.” He sighed. “We must shoulder that regret, and go on. I think the answer to your question may be two-fold, Lena. Firstly, in your village—was this history written?”

  “No,” I said, “not that I know of. It was told to us; we learned all our history that way.”

  “Tales spoken, even when those who tell them believe them to be true, can often stray from what actually happened. But they often retain much of the truth, and it is possible that there were two sets of taxes; the one before Partition vote, and one, later, that increased the tithe even further, and that over the years the two have become confused, conflated into one event. We may never know,” he finished. I could hear what I thought was a trace of frustration in his voice.