“Is there nothing in your books that speaks of this?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Those who wrote our histories were not terribly interested in what was happening in the southern Empire. Although the Partition vote and its results—the laws dividing your lives into women's villages and compulsory army life for boys and men—did warrant mention. It was rather drastic,” he added.
“I suppose. It was just normal, for us, until these past two years.”
“But it was not normal, at the beginning,” he reminded me. “Shall we go on?”
“‘For ten days and nights women and men met and debated,’” he read. “‘The men supported the Emperor in his quest for more lands, arguing it was needed. The women argued there was land enough; careful husbandry would make it sufficient. Finally, Lucian suggested a parting of the ways: men would fight; women would fish and farm. A vote was taken and by a small margin passed.’”
“Not quite six in ten,” I said. Perras looked up, his eyebrows questioning. “That is what the Emperor told me,” I explained.
“How did he know this?”
I thought back, to that first meeting, and the unexpected turn the conversation had taken. “He said Colm had found the records. In a storeroom, somewhere.”
Perras leaned back in his chair. “I think,” he said, “I will include that, as a footnote. I did not know how close the vote was, and it is worth recording.” He wrote for a minute.
Should I tell him, I wondered, that Callan had planned a new Assembly, to consider and vote again on the Partition agreement? Nevin or Blaine would have sent word of this north, had they both not died that Midwinter's Day, executed as traitors. And there was my answer. I was not a traitor; I could say nothing. I regretted even making the comment about the vote. But the Emperor had told me to exchange views on Partition and our histories—did that mean I should talk about it? No, I told myself firmly. It's not our history; it's our future. And he told me to trust my instinct, and my instinct tells me to say nothing.
Perras finished his writing and looked up again. I hoped my confusion did not show in my face; to hide it, I glanced down at the book in my hands. “This next paragraph,” I said, forestalling any comment from Perras, “I have always wondered about what it says.” This was not strictly true: it had been Niav's comment last night, about marriage, that had caused me to wonder.
“Let us check my transcription,” he said, “and then please ask what you wish; if I can answer your questions, I will.”
“‘But the decree from the Emperor after the Partition vote was not to the liking of many men and women, not even some men senior in the army and long trusted by Lucian, even though that disagreement meant their death by the laws of the Empire’,” he read. “‘All men would serve in the Emperor's armies, whether they wished to or not; all women would fish and farm, or run the inns and workshops. Marriages were ended and families sundered. Twice a year only, war allowing, could the men visit their homes. Many fled the lands governed by Lucian, going east over the Durrains, or taking boats south; some even fled north, to the wild lands and people there.’”
“It is correct?” he asked. I nodded. “And what did you want to ask?”
“Several things,” I said, prevaricating. Suddenly I did not feel I could ask what I had originally wished to, about marriage; not yet. “The people who fled east,” I said instead, “across the Durrains. Where would they have gone? What lies beyond the mountains?” I turned, to look at the map that hung on the wall behind me. It showed the Durrains, but the land beyond them was blank.
“Ah,” Perras said. “It is not on that map, Lena. But if you go to that third shelf,” he pointed at the bookshelf to the right of the fireplace, “and get down the blue box, I will show you.” I stood to do his bidding. I pulled the blue box from the shelf and placed it on the table. The Comiádh opened it, taking out a rolled paper, tied with faded ribbon. He loosened the bow and spread the paper—the map—out, weighing the edges with the box on one side and his inkwell on the other.
“Come and stand beside me,” he said. I did as he asked, peering down at the map. It was old; the paper browned and spotted, the colours faded.
“Here are the Durrains,” Perras said, indicating a line of marks on the map. It was oriented in the way I was used to, the mountains running down the map to the sea at the bottom. But to their right, where the map Casyn had drawn for me long months before had ended, more land was shown; land and rivers and towns, occupying most of the sheet. In large letters, extending over most of the lower portion of the map, was the word cadenti.
“What does that mean?” I asked, pointing at the word.
“Conquered,” Perras said.
“Conquered?” I said. “By whom? When? What language is that?”
“By the Eastern Empire,” he said, “half a thousand years ago, at least. And the language is Casilan, the language of the East, the archaic version of your tongue, to answer your questions in order.”
I stared at the map. “I did not realize. I thought we were part of that Empire, yes, but conquered by them? Who were they?”
“The Casilani ruled much of the known world,” Perras said. “They were, from all we know, a people of order, literate and learned, who sought to expand beyond their borders, perhaps at first to feed their growing population. From this city, here,” he pointed to the far-right edge of the map, where ‘Casil’ was inscribed in faded gold lettering, “they marched and sailed armies east, and conquered almost all the lands you see here. They brought learning and order with them. They established subordinate Emperors in their colonies—your Emperor Callan is heir to that position—to oversee the army and the food shipments and the taxes. And then, quite suddenly, they disappeared.”
This was much as Darel, and then Cillian, had told me. I looked at the map again, noticing this time that the lands to the north of where the Durrains bent eastward were shaded in grey, not the faded green of most of the map. I moved my eyes to the left, where the land I recognized as my own lay: it too was shaded green, but to its north, the map again was grey.
I pointed to that grey. “Is this Linrathe?”
“What is Linrathe now, yes,” Perras answered.
“Does the grey mean it was not conquered?”
“It does,” he said.
“Why not?” I demanded. “How did these lands hold out, if my own did not?”
“For much the same reasons, I believe, that your Emperor Lucian's armies could not: ‘they did not find the conquest of the northern lands easy, for the inhabitants knew the hills and valleys, forests and caves well, and used them to their advantage’. It is a wild land, Lena, and very difficult, and more so as you go north. But they did try; the Sterre, the other wall you noticed yesterday on the wall map: they built it, but could not hold it for more than a dozen years, if that. Their armies retreated south, and left these lands in peace, more or less.”
As Lucian had, and now as Callan needed to. Was it just the land that made Linrathe so unconquerable?
“At the White Fort,” I said slowly, “the morning of the proclamation of truce—I was there. The Emperor, Callan, and the Teannasach debated who should speak first, at the proclamation. Callan claimed precedence, and Donnalch granted it, but I didn't understand his reasons.” I struggled to remember. “He said that we came from a common history, and that he and his men did not forget the greater Empire either. What did he mean, if Linrathe was not conquered?”
“Sit, Lena,” Perras said, “and I will attempt to explain.” I did as he asked. When I was seated, he went on.
“Linrathe—or what would become Linrathe—was not conquered, no,” the Comiádh answered. “But in the dozen years the Empire of the East's armies occupied this land, the leaders here saw much to admire in the Empire's ways, although they had no wish to be ruled by Casil. They sought—both during and after the occupation, for the Eastern Empire continued its presence in your lands for another two hundred years—to learn from the Eas
t, from their writings, from observation and likely from the interchange of ideas, and adopted what seemed good and appropriate for our people. These schools, for example, are part of that tradition. So, yes, the Teannasach spoke truly, when he spoke of a common history, although we have moved on from that common history in very different ways.”
“I see,” I said slowly, my thoughts whirling. My confusion must have shown on my face, for Perras put down his pen.
“I think,” Perras said, “that is enough for today. You have much to think about, and the mind does not learn if it is force-fed. There is still over an hour until the mid-day meal. It is your time, of course, but perhaps you might go riding? I used to ride after lessons, especially difficult ones. It helps settle one's thoughts.”
My mind cleared at the thought of riding, of action and movement. Clio would be sufficiently rested. I stood.
“Meas, Comiádh,” I said. “It is a good idea.”
“Meas, Lena, for helping me with the transcription,” he replied. “Come to see me at the same time tomorrow, and we will continue.”
I closed the door quietly behind me. The hall was empty. Upstairs, I changed into my outdoor clothes and boots. From my bedroom window, the sky gleamed grey; not threatening rain, I thought, just a grey day.
After a quick visit to the latrine I began to walk toward the stables and paddock. A moment later, I heard footsteps behind me, and turned to see Gregor following me. Of course, I thought. I won't be alone; he has to go with me.
“The Comiádh told me to go for a ride,” I said, “as a break from my lessons. Since you must come with me, do you know this area well enough to lead me somewhere to gallop? I am in the mood for a run.”
“I can do that, my lady,” he answered. I didn't bother to correct him. We walked in silence to the stables. The horses grazed in the paddock, but as always Clio came to me when I called her. I scratched her head, wishing I'd brought her a piece of bread, and led her out of the field and to the tack room.
Gregor followed with his solid bay, and tacked the gelding up with the economical, practiced moves of a cavalry soldier. He mounted, not waiting, I was glad to see, to offer me a leg up. I swung onto Clio's back and followed Gregor away from the stable.
The path ran down along the edge of the stream, its surface pocked by the hooves of sheep. The stream itself gurgled and splashed along a bed of dark rock, running fast with the early spring rains and the melting snows of winter. A small brown bird with a brilliant white throat hunted in the moving water, walking into the stream and diving below the surface.
“What bird is that?” I called to Gregor. He reined up and looked where I was pointing.
“A snámh'a,” he said. “I don't know its name in your language.” He shrugged. “It swims? That's what its name means.”
“Swimmer?” I hazarded. “Swimming bird?”
He nodded. “Something like that.”
“Meas, Gregor,” I said, and was rewarded by a moment of surprise on his face. Mentally I chastised myself for forgetting to use ‘please’ before my question. Next time, I told myself.
Ahead I could see a stone bridge spanning the stream; beyond it, the track led into a wide valley, with the stream at its right edge. We clopped over the bridge; at its far side, Gregor glanced back at me. “We can gallop here,” he said. “Do you want to set the pace?”
“No,” I said after a moment's consideration. “You know the land better. We'll follow.” He nodded, and urged his bay into trot, and then quickly into a gallop. Clio tossed her head, and galloped after them.
When was the last time I had galloped for pure pleasure? Somewhere in the grasslands, riding south with Garth, I thought. It felt like a lifetime ago. I leaned a bit further forward, and gave myself up to the sensation of speed and power.
It took us about ten minutes to reach the far end of the valley, and sweat lathered along both horses’ reins when we pulled up. The valley had narrowed toward the end, the land rising more steeply on the left side. Gregor pointed up the hill. “If we go up there,” he suggested, “there's a good long view. It might interest you.”
“Let's,” I said, and Gregor turned his horse's head to the hill. We followed a track that zigzagged back and forth across the slope to reach the top, an easy climb. The hilltop was flat. Sheep grazed, scattered across the plateau, and a strong wind blew from the west.
I gazed northward. I could see a line of hills a long distance away; snow lay on their peaks; the highest were shrouded in cloud. I thought I saw a glint of water before them. Gregor spoke.
“I was born in those hills. That's home, or was. My Athàir—my da— has sheep, like most there, and my Mathàir and the women weave the wool.”
“Some women in my village were weavers, too,” I said. “They made blankets, and sails, and material for clothes. Is that what the women in your family made?”
“Not sails,” he said. “But the other, yes.”
“Do you miss them?” I asked impulsively. He did not answer immediately. “Forla, Gregor,” I said. “I should not have presumed to ask that.”
“It's fine, my lady,” he said, and the tone of his voice told me he was not just being polite. “I was just collecting my thoughts. Do I miss them? Yes, I suppose I do; although there is no real place there for me. My brother helps my da with the sheep, and there is not a living there for all of us. So, a soldier I became, when the Teannasach asked for men.”
I looked up at him, sitting easily on his horse beside me. He was looking north, the wind blowing strands of his dark hair across his face. Why was he a soldier, and not Cillian? They were the same age, more or less. ‘I am no lover of Empires,’ Cillian had said. Surely someone who felt like that would have joined a fight against my Empire? But was that what the invasion was about? I realized I didn't know. I had never questioned, never asked.
“Allech'i, Gregor,” I said. “What does the Teannasach want with the Empire's lands? Why did he breach the Wall?”
He looked down at me. “Don't you know?” he said, the surprise evident in his voice.
“No,” I said, “I don't. I thought it was to support a faction of our soldiers who wanted to overthrow the Emperor, but it can't just be that. There must be something more for the Teannasach, and your people. Is it for land?”
“No,” he replied. “Not for land, or for any prizes. We invaded to give you back what your Emperors have taken from you. You live in tyranny, my lady, whether you realize it or not: men and women are meant to live together, to marry and raise families, to work together. And you cannot. There are many here in Linrathe whose ancestors, mine included, escaped your lands to freedom here, and for many generations they have been asking our leaders to free the southern lands. This Teannasach has listened, and acted. So, it is all for you, my lady Lena, and not for us at all.”
Chapter Six
I stared up at Gregor, speechless. All for us? But why did they think we wanted this? I thought of Nevin and Blaine: was this what they had wanted? Was this why Nevin's son had opened the gates to Linrathe's soldiers? Did the Emperor know? How could he not, after all the long talks with Donnalch? Too many questions. I had wanted to gallop, to clear my head, but now it pounded with confusion and doubts.
Gregor had turned his horse around, facing back the way we came, to scan the horizon, his soldier's training making these actions automatic. I opened my mouth to ask to return to the Ti'ach, to talk to Perras, or Dagney. I had just started to speak when he held up a hand to stop me.
“Look,” he said, pointing south. “Horses and riders, moving fast.” I looked outward, to where he pointed; two horses on the hilltop above the Ti'ach. “That's the Teannasach: I recognize his horse. And Ardan with him, I've no doubt. We must go back, my lady; I might be needed.”
The horses picked their way back down the hill. As soon as we reached level ground, the walk became a gallop, back across the valley and over the bridge, slowing only as we reached the narrow, muddy, uneven path beside the strea
m. At the stable, we both had our horses unsaddled and turned out in minutes. The day was cool and we had walked the last distance, so they would come to no harm. I strode with Gregor up the path to the house; we reached the courtyard just as Donnalch and Ardan clattered in.
Gregor said something I did not understand, although I thought I caught the word 'Teannasach'. The two men dismounted; Gregor took the reins of Donnalch's horse, and again said something, this time to Ardan, who laughed.
“No hurry at all, except that we were hungry,” he answered, glancing at me, “and wanted to get here in time for the noon meal. If there is one. Have you eaten today since breakfast, Lena?”
“No,” I said. “And there is a noon meal planned.”
“Good,” Donnalch said, “for a piece of bread at dawn has not much staying power.” He grinned, turning toward the hall door. As he reached the first step, the door opened. For a moment, against the dark of the room behind, I could not see who stood there.
“Welcome, Teannasach,” Cillian said. “Food is nearly ready, please come in.” A very formal greeting, I thought. I glanced back at Gregor, wondering if I should help with the horses. He shook his head and began to lead the two horses away. I followed Donnalch and Ardan into the hall.
As when I had arrived—only two days before, I realized—everyone came out to greet the guests. Donnalch had a word for everyone, even Niav, who blushed and giggled when he spoke to her. Dagney sent her out to the kitchen, and I went with her.
“Two more mouths,” Isa said from the stove. “Well, there's plenty bread. Niav, cut a bitty more, will you not?” Niav did as she was asked, slicing a loaf with practiced skill. She piled it into a wooden bowl.
“What can I do?” I asked.
“Take the bread out to the hall,” Niav answered. “One bowl at each end of the table.”
Out in the hall the elders and Donnalch had gathered at one end of the room. Neither Ardan nor Cillian were to be seen. I placed the bread as Niav had directed. Jordis and Sorley were setting the table, bringing spoons and mats from the sideboard where the glass drinking vessels were kept.
Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy Page 44