“Or,” I argued, “about the constraints put on the women of Linrathe, to marry, to have and raise children only with a man, and to believe that is the only family.”
“Well,” Dagney replied, her face impassive, “even your villages haven't found a way for a woman to have a child without a man, have they?”
I stared at her for a moment, and then began helplessly to laugh. Somehow, I put my tea down without spilling it, wiping the tears of laughter from my eyes. Dagney laughed with me. It took us both a minute to gain control. But even as I laughed, a thought had come to me.
“Tell me,” I said when I could speak again. “Is it shameful, here, for a woman to bear a child when she has no man to claim the child? To be the father?”
“It is,” she answered, sober again now. “There is shame both in bearing a child without an acknowledged father at all, and in bearing a child to a man outside of a formal partnership, even if he acknowledges the child as his.”
“And are these formal partnerships—marriages—permanent?”
“Not always,” she said slowly. “A marriage can be dissolved, if both man and woman agree. It is rare, though.”
I gathered my thoughts. “So perhaps we are not so different. Our children also need to be conceived in a partnership; children born outside of an acknowledged partnership are shameful for us too. The difference is the length of our partnerships with men; they may last only the week of Festival, or, as in my aunt's case, for many years, until her man—Mar—died. Even though they only saw each other twice a year, they were partnered only with each other. And the men, or their designates, are responsible for their sons, by law.”
Dagney considered. “It is an argument,” she said finally. “But it does not get to the heart of the question: you have no choice in this. You cannot live with your man, even if you wanted to.”
“And can you choose to live without a man?” I said. “Are there not restrictions on our choices on both sides?”
“We can choose to live without a man,” Dagney said. “I am proof of that. What we cannot choose to do, honourably, is to have a child in that situation.”
“And that is why Cillian is so angry,” I said, remembering what Sorley had told me.
“It is,” Dagney agreed. “And speaking of Cillian, Lena, I think you should know: he will be accompanying us. The plan was made before the Teannasach chose to include you as well.”
“That will be awkward. He doesn't like me.”
“It's not personal, Lena.”
I nodded. “That's what Sorley told me, too. I'm sorry for Cillian. I have some experience of what it means for a child to be unacknowledged in our lands; it is not easy. I expect it is not here, either.”
“It isn't,” Dagney agreed. “Many come—or are sent—to the Ti'acha, because it is thought, rightly, that here we care about scholarship, and not lineage. What should matter now in our country is where Cillian trained; he has even now the right to call himself Cillian na Perras, telling all that he is a scholar, trained in this house.”
“Should matter?”
Dagney sighed. “Cillian himself makes it difficult. He will not let his anger go, and accept his life as a scholar. He has a very good mind. Perras tells me he is highly skilled in analysing strategy, and the tactics of battles and their outcomes over time, which is why, I expect, the Teannasach has commanded him to ride with him as he visits the villages. But he has been disagreeable ever since Ardan told him he was to go. He dislikes acknowledging any authority, seeing himself as separate, somehow, from our laws and our life, an observer and commentator, and a cynical one at that.” She shook her head, frustrated. “I am not expressing myself very well.” she said. “I have known him over thirty years, almost since he was born, and I love him, but I worry for him. He is not happy.”
There was nothing I could say to that. Dagney also said nothing for a minute, her eyes unfocused, thinking. Then she smiled, brisk and contained again. “Go to Perras now,” she said, “if you are finished your tea. Leave the mug there; Isa will come for it, soon.”
I rose, a bit awkwardly, my balance uncertain with my arm slung against my body. “Thank you, Lady.”
I left the warmth of her teaching rooms and crossed the colder hall out to the even colder latrines, fumbling there with my clothes, one-handedly. Then I reversed my steps back into the hall to knock at Perras's door. “Come,” he called, and I opened the door to step inside. The room was warmer than Dagney's had been. Perras sat close to the fire, transcribing Colm's book.
“Lena,” he greeted me, putting his pen down. “I understand you are to ride north with the Teannasach.”
“I am. He has requested it, and I can't say no.” I hesitated. “I would rather stay here,” I said, wondering if I was being imprudent, “to learn from you. There is so much I wanted to ask.”
“And I was looking forward to our talks, too. But what the Teannasach wants he will have, and so it must be. You will not be gone that long. This is only an interruption in our learning.” He glanced down at the page in front of him. “But I must ask this, Lena: will you leave me Colm's history, while you are gone?”
I took a deep breath. I had been expecting this question. “I cannot,” I said softly. “I am truly sorry, Comiádh, but I cannot. He trusted me with it, and it is all I have of him.”
He smiled, sadly, I thought. “I thought that would be your answer. In anticipation, I have been transcribing as much as I could, last night and this morning. At least I have now had a chance to read it. You leave the morning after next?”
“Yes.”
“Then I think I can get it done, with Cillian's help in the transcription when my hand grows tired. But it will not leave us time to talk, which I regret.”
I bowed my head. “As do I, Comiádh.”
“But it is only for a short while,” he answered, “and the Lady Dagney knows our history well. As do Cillian and the Teannasach. You will have time to talk, on the ride.”
“I suppose so,” I said. Privately I wondered if either man would entertain my questions: Donnalch had his own reasons for taking me along, and I thought Cillian would avoid me as best he could. I doubted my questions about the history of the northlands and the Eastern Empire would be a priority for either man. But Dagney would indulge me, I thought.
“My hand needs a rest from writing,” Perras said, “so we may talk, for a little while, now. I will leave my questions until you return. So, this is your chance, Lena: what can I tell you, that you would like to know?”
Of all my questions, there was one that puzzled me the most. “What happened to the Eastern Empire?” I asked. “I know all communication stopped, but why? Do you know? How could they just disappear?”
“Ah,” Perras said. “The answer to that—or more accurately the answer to why you do not know—lies in fear and superstition. The actual answer is quite simple, but it is hidden, because to speak of it might bring it back.”
I looked at him, not comprehending.
“Disease, Lena,” he said. “The Eastern Empire fell because of disease.”
“Disease?” I repeated. And again, I heard my mother's voice: the Eastern Fever... “The Eastern Fever?” I asked. “It killed them? All of them?”
“How do you know that name?” Perras asked sharply.
“My mother,” I answered, confused by his tone. “She is a healer. I heard her talk of it once.”
“Openly?” he probed, his tone less severe.
I struggled to remember. “She was talking about anash.” The memory played at the edges of my mind…the council meeting, when we had debated the use of the contraceptive tea for young girls, against rape by the Lestians should our defenses fail. “Yes, openly,” I said. “In meeting. She was giving her opinion about anash's safety for young girls, and she said it had been used against the Eastern Fever, and therefore was likely safe.”
“That was all?” Perras queried. “And did anyone ask about the Eastern Fever?”
&nb
sp; “No one,” I answered. “It wasn't part of the discussion, and nobody seemed interested.”
“Is that all you know?”
“Yes,” I said. “It didn't seem to matter. If I thought about it at all, I suppose I thought it was an ague, or a summer fever, that's all.”
“I wonder,” Perras said thoughtfully. “Have the women's villages forgotten, both the fever and the prohibition against speaking its name? So, you do not know what else your mother might know of it?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“How I would like to talk to her, or another healer,” he murmured. He sighed. “Dagney will tell you the rest, child, as you ride. I will speak to her. I had best return to the copying, if I am to get it done.”
Chapter Eight
Fog obscured the world, a fine icy fog that spangled our cloaks with tiny droplets and hid the land on either side of the track. We rode at a walk, letting our horses pick their footing, following Gregor. His horse, he had said, knew this track, and he trusted it to find a safe path.
Occasionally a shaft of sunlight cut through the mist, illuminating moorland or mountainside for a moment, showing us a terrain of grey rock, silver-green heath, pewter water. Except for the quiet clop of hooves and the occasional jangle of a bit, silence reigned. Not even a curlew's mournful cry broke the stillness. I sat Clio passively, my gloved hand holding the reins loose and low on her neck, as I had for the past two hours, being carried.
Ahead of us, Gregor called a halt, his voice muffled by the fog. “Ride up,” I heard Donnalch say. He had been riding behind Gregor, followed by Cillian. Behind Cillian was Dagney, and then me, and behind us, taking the tail position, Ardan. “There's space here for us all.” I gathered my reins to heel Clio forward, edging in among the other gathered horses and riders. We stood on a platform of rock, bare but for the orange and green of lichens, pocked with depressions and fissures. Beyond and below us ran a wide stream, rushing downhill.
Clio shook herself, a shiver running through her skin from head to tail. “This is the Tabha,” Gregor said. “It's too fast and too wide to cross here, so we're going to follow the track downhill awhile, until we can ford it safely.”
“But a mouthful of food and drink first,” the Teannasach said. “Dismount, to rest your horse a minute, and warm you.” We did as we were told, my movements awkward due to my injured arm. Clio stood stolidly, used to this now. I took a package of food from my saddlebag, my one hand stiff and clumsy on the leather straps, and unhooked the water skin. I wedged the package of bread and cheese into my sling, and, carrying the water skin in my good hand, found my way over to Dagney. I carried the food for us both, her saddlebags taken up with her ladhar and writing tools.
She was checking the wrappings on her instrument, ensuring the oiled cloth beneath its woollen bag was keeping it dry. Apparently satisfied, she turned to me, reaching for the food. “You are not in too much pain?” she asked quietly, unwrapping the package. I shook my head, scattering water droplets from my hood.
“Just a dull ache,” I said truthfully. She held food out to me. I put the water skin on the ground and took the bread, layered with a piece of cheese. I took a bite. The bread was dry and stale, but the cheese, earthy and pungent, made from sheep's milk, compensated.
“This damp does it no good,” she said, the concern in her voice reminding me of my mother. The memory pained. I pushed it away. Dagney glanced around. “I wish you had seen this in sunlight,” she said, as she chewed. “The Tabha tumbles down off Beinn Seánfhear, sparkling and splashing over the rocks, and when the liun—the heather—is in flower, in the late summer, it is glorious. Even now, in sunshine, it has a bleak beauty.”
“Is there a song about it?” I asked, swallowing the last bite of food. I reached for the water skin to wash it down.
“Yes,” she answered, “it is mentioned in several, but there is one specifically about the battle fought here, long ago, and the river's role in ending it.”
“Tell me,” I said impulsively. The lack of opportunity to talk frustrated me: when the track wasn't too narrow to ride together, the wind or rain had made conversation impossible. Last night I had been too exhausted to talk, falling asleep as soon as I had swallowed some food and Dagney had seen to my arm.
“Not now,” Dagney answered. “But once we ford, the land is drier, and if we can ride side by side I will tell you then, or sing it, if I can. A story always lifts hearts, even if my ladhar is too damp to play.”
“Always?” I heard Donnalch's voice ask. “Even when the chorus speaks of an abhaínne geälis dhuarcha ag föla?”
“Yes,” Dagney answered evenly. “For the Marai sing the same line: Tien lissande flodden, mattai af bluth. Both sides found the cost here too high, as you well know, Teannasach, and so we have peace. Is that not enough to lift our hearts?”
“Is it?” he said. “I wonder.” He raised his voice. “Time to ride. Mount up!”
“What does the chorus mean?” I asked Dagney as we mounted. She hesitated.
“‘A shining river dulled by blood’,” she replied, and then she was behind me on the path. Inwardly I shivered at the description. Peace bought with blood. I leaned back in the saddle to balance my weight as Clio began to descend the narrow path.
The fog began to lift as we came down from the heights. As the visibility improved, I saw that the Tabha flowed rapidly across its rocky bed, swollen still with the meltwaters off the high peaks. I wondered how we were to cross it. But when the land flattened, so did the river, widening into a slower and shallower channel. Waterfowl took to wing as we approached, calling, circling back to land in the river behind us. The faint jingle of a bell drifted across the moorland; somewhere, a flock of sheep grazed. Gregor called a halt: we had reached the ford.
Shallower the river might be, but I judged it still over Clio's knees, and perhaps deeper in the middle. My little mare was obedient, and plucky, but she did not like water, and I had only one hand and arm with which to control her. “Gregor,” I called.
He turned in his saddle. “Lena?”
“Clio will need to be led over,” I said. “She is not good with deep water.”
“Will she carry you, or should you come up behind one of us?” A reasonable question. I considered. I wasn't sure what Clio would do, but neither could I see how I could mount up behind another rider with my injured arm. “She'll carry me,” I said finally, hoping it were true.
Gregor turned his horse to ride up to me. Dismounting, he took a rope from his pack and looped it through the bit rings on Clio's bridle, knotting it with deft moves. “She knows my horse best,” he said, although nobody had spoken. Then he swung himself back up into the saddle, signalling to his bay to move forward, down the shallow bank and into the water.
Clio snorted as the water lapped at her hooves, but she moved forward obediently. Gregor kept his gelding to a slow walk, letting it pick its own route across the stony bottom of the ford. The water reached higher on Clio's legs. She faltered, swinging her head against the tautening lead rope. I urged her forward with my feet, encouraging and, I hoped, calming her with my voice at the same time. Another step forward, and another. I could feel water, cold against my boots. Clio flattened her ears. I brought my hand down to the pommel of my saddle.
My mare stopped, water lapping at her belly, her muscles tensed. Gregor felt the lead rope go tight and halted his horse, turning slightly to see what was happening. As he turned, the lead rope slackened a tiny bit, and at that Clio sidestepped and sprung forward, heading for the far bank, wanting to be out of the water.
Gregor dropped the lead rope. I tightened my legs against Clio's belly and held on as she scrabbled across the stones, hooves sliding, water splashing, beyond my control. A front leg slipped. She stumbled, throwing me forward against her neck, my bad arm pushed against my body, shooting pain up to my shoulder. Somehow, she kept her footing, scrambling upward onto the far bank. She stopped, shaking herself like a dog, her sides heaving. I sa
t, hand still tight on the pommel, gasping with pain and relief. Gregor appeared beside me, reaching for Clio's bridle.
“Are you all right?” he asked. He led Clio—totally obedient now—further away from the bank.
I nodded, took a deep breath. “Yes,” I managed. “Banged my arm, that's all.”
“We'll need to strap it tighter,” I heard Dagney say. “And you are wet, and will chill, and that will not be good for you or your arm.” She brought her mare to beside me, reaching out to touch my wet breeches as she spoke.
“If she cannot get a horse across a ford without Gregor’s help,” I heard Cillian mutter, “how can she claim not to need men?”
I bit my lip. If I reply, I thought, I might cry, and I will not cry in front of Cillian. But even as I looked mutely at Dagney, Donnalch spoke, his voice cold in rebuke.
“Hold your tongue, Cillian,” he said, not raising his voice at all, but the anger and command still evident in his sharp, measured tone. “Her mare's fear of water is not a reflection on Lena's abilities, especially riding with one arm.”
I reined Clio sideways and looked at Cillian. He was staring at Donnalch. “I think you make a heroine of this girl, Teannasach,” he replied, his voice as cold and angry as his leader's. Suddenly, in the timbre of his voice, and the planes of his face in anger, I saw—and heard—the resemblance that had been plaguing me. I had a knack of seeing the overlay of one face on another, the way the women from Han could identify the bloodlines of their horses from their looks and the way they moved, a skill that had saved my cousin Garth’s life during the Lestian invasion. But now I nearly spoke my shock aloud. He looked—and sounded—like Callan, cold and fierce in the aftermath of betrayal.
“I am of half a mind to send you home,” the Teannasach said. “Mistake me not, Cillian; you are past insolence now, for all our tradition of free speech to our leaders. I brought you along to hear what our people have to say, and to give me your thoughts, but if you cannot keep from voicing your prejudices then you will be of no use to me at all. Less than no use; you will be dangerous, planting ideas in the minds of the people. So. You will not ride at the back with Ardan any longer, but beside me and Lena as we talk. And you will keep quiet, unless I ask you a direct question. But be prepared to speak with me in the evenings, in reasoned discourse. If you cannot do that, I will send you back to the Ti’ach.”
Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy Page 47