Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy

by Marian L Thorpe

  I could not see Cillian, nor Ardan. We walked toward the high table; nearly at the platform, Rothny stopped, pointing at two empty spots on the bench. “Takkë, Fräskaran,” Dagney said. I echoed the 'takkë’ and slid into the spot furthest from the high table, allowing Dagney the end spot; she would have to stand to play at some point. Rothny walked on, mounting the platform to take the chair beside her husband.

  The hall had fallen silent as we—or rather the Fräskaran—approached the high table. Fritjof stood as his wife joined him, remaining standing after she had taken her chair. He waited a moment, then began to speak. His words sounded to me precise, brooking no argument or dissension. I felt my skin prickle. Dagney turned to me.

  “He says,” she murmured, “that now all witnesses he required are present—he means us, or at least you, by that—then his coronation can proceed, tomorrow. And then he bade us to eat, and enjoy ourselves.”

  Servers began to bring platters of meat and bread to the tables. “Who are the other men at the high table?” I whispered to Dagney.

  “Two are Härren of Sorham, landholders and leaders; the others I do not know. Marai, I presume. Fritjof's brother, Ǻsmund, is not among them. I wonder what that means.”

  The man across from us looked up, catching Ǻsmund's name. He frowned. Dagney, seeing his reaction, said a few words to him. He nodded, and made a gesture of dismissal with his hand.

  “I told him I was only explaining Fritjof's lineage to you,” Dagney murmured. “There is tension here, about the brother.”

  The server reached between us to place a platter on the table. When I looked up, he handed me a short knife, set into a wooden handle, a tool for cutting meat. I realized there were no other implements on the table, save for an intricately carved wooden spoon at each place. “Takkë,” I said, glancing at Dagney.

  “Every Marai carries his or her own table knife,” she explained. “These are ours to keep, and to bring to each meal. They are used by women to cut spun wool, and small hides, to skin rabbits and gut fish, and whenever a small blade is needed. There is a pocket in your sleeve—see?—to carry it. Use it, and not the pockets in the skirt; otherwise you will cut yourself. Now, Fritjof's table has been served, so we may eat.”

  She reached over to spear a piece of meat from the platter, transferring it to her own plate and reaching for bread. A dish of stewed berries sat beside the platter. Dagney spooned it liberally over the mutton. I followed suit. The berry sauce was tangy, almost astringent, but it balanced the strong, salty flavour of the sheep's flesh.

  Ale splashed into the earthenware beaker above my plate. At the parallel table, I saw the servers moving along the rows of men, pouring the drink. One caught my eye: Cillian. I schooled my face to impassivity, barely moving my head. He poured wine for Niáll, who barked something at him. Cillian nodded. Putting down his jug, he went away, returning in a minute with a bowl. I saw Niáll spoon sauce over his meat.

  Cillian moved along the table, not looking at me. I concentrated on my food. After the mutton and bread a sweeter bread, rich with dried fruit, was brought. For the lower tables, at least, that was the end of the meal.

  I looked around the room, catching several people staring at me. Well, I thought, I am a stranger, and hair is short, not like these women’s. I sipped the last of my ale, moving my gaze to the head table. Donnalch looked our way occasionally, but when his eyes caught mine they did not linger; he watched the room constantly, I noted. The others paid us no attention at all.

  A server bent to speak to Dagney. She nodded, standing, picking up her ladhar. “I must play,” she said to me. A stool had been placed for her on the platform; she sat on it, tuning her instrument. The servers brought more ale. Benches scraped as men pushed back from the tables, making themselves comfortable.

  Niáll took Dagney's place beside me. “I am here to translate, should it be needed,” he explained. I nodded. Dagney began to sing, a melody I had heard played before. After a moment, I leaned towards Niáll. “What song is this?” I asked.

  “In your tongue,” he said, “something like 'Sisters Dark and Light'.”

  “Meas,” I answered, thinking about what Dagney had said about this song. Was she taking a chance playing it, sending a message? Or was it just a familiar song to please the crowd?

  Dagney played three songs. Niáll told me the names of each, but said nothing else. Occasionally, from the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Cillian clearing tables and pouring ale, but he stayed away from our table. I did not look at him. During the last song, Niáll shifted in his seat as if he were uncomfortable, distracting me. Glancing at him, I saw beads of sweat on his face. Suddenly he got up, walking rapidly out of the hall. Too much ale, I decided.

  When Dagney finished her last song, to much stamping and cheering, Fritjof stood. Whatever he said resulted in more stamping and cheering. He turned on the dais and bowed to Rothny, extending a hand to help her rise. I watched as she smiled at the other men at the high table before descending. Were we to go with her? I looked at Dagney; 'stay there', she gestured. I waited. After a moment, she beckoned to me. I slid along the bench, inwardly cursing my skirts, and stood. A tug on my sleeve made me turn. The man who had been sitting on my far side held my eating knife out to me. “Takkë,” I said, smiling at him. I found the sleeve-sheath, and slid it in.

  I climbed onto the platform. Donnalch stood. “Lena,” he said, “I am glad to see you well; your arm is better?” His voice was formal.

  “Teannasach,” I replied. “It is much better, thank you.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” he said. “King Fritjof wishes to speak to you, to learn more about the Empire. I will translate, and my clerk will transcribe, so that there is a record.”

  His clerk? That had to be Cillian. Fritjof, I guessed, would have little regard for those whose work was to read and write, except to use them as needed. “Of course.”

  We followed Fritjof towards the back of the hall, partitioned off with walls of wood to make a private room. Inside, a fire took the chill off the room, and several chairs faced the hearth. Sheepskins lay in front of each chair. Unshuttered windows set in the end wall let light into the room, far more comfortable than anything I had yet seen in the women's hall.

  Cillian, summoned from his serving duties, caught up with us just as we entered the room. The door shut behind us. Fritjof gestured us to the chairs, choosing one closest to the fire for himself. Donnalch sat opposite to him; Dagney and I in-between. Cillian did not sit, but prepared to write at a tall desk near the windows.

  Fritjof asked a question. Dagney shook her head, as did Cillian. Dagney turned to me. “Lena, where is Niáll? He came to translate for you, when I was singing.”

  “He left in a hurry,” I said. “I thought perhaps he felt sick, too much ale? He did not look well.” She translated this for Fritjof, who scowled. He had wanted him here, I thought, to verify that what I said was correctly translated.

  Fritjof began to speak. Donnalch explained rather than translated his first sentences, welcoming me to his lands and his coronation, the first person of the Empire to have witnessed this. I saw a small muscle twitch beside Donnalch's eye when he spoke the words 'his lands'. Then the questioning began.

  “How large is the Empire?”

  “About the size of Sorham,” I answered, “if my understanding of that is correct.” Fritjof nodded when this was relayed to him. Had he known that, and was only testing me?

  “How many boats does the Emperor command? How big are they?”

  “I do not know the answer to the first question,” I said. Donnalch relayed this. Fritjof frowned. “As to how large—maybe fifteen paces long?” I said, purposely underestimating, looking at Donnalch as I did. He moved his head slightly, a tiny negative gesture. “No, wait,” I said, as if I had reconsidered, “maybe longer, maybe twenty, twenty-five paces. Thirty men, and their officers.” I had been warned; I was to speak the truth. Or, I thought, at least I should be truthful, if Donnalch w
ill know if I'm not.

  The questioning continued. I was asked about rivers, about harbours, about towns and roads. I pleaded ignorance when I could, and carefully minimised what I said about Casilla. I was not asked about the Wall; Fritjof had other sources for that information. Nor, I noted, was I asked about the women's villages, other than to confirm that was how we lived.

  I had no doubt that Fritjof planned an invasion. I was also certain he had reclaimed Sorham for Varsland, and that Donnalch was a guest in name only.

  Finally, Fritjof leaned back in his chair with a grunt. He looked over at Cillian, who still wrote. When Cillian put down his pen, Fritjof said something, clearly a command. Cillian walked over to a sideboard to pour wine for us all.

  I took the cup. I was thirsty from all the talking. As Cillian handed it to me, he murmured something: 'tonight', I thought. “Meas,” I replied, hoping he would know I had heard him.

  Dagney and Donnalch began to talk, in the language of the Marai. Fritjof did not react, but sipped his wine, listening, his eyes sometimes straying to me. Suddenly, Dagney switched languages. “And I bring you greetings, Teannasach, from Einar and Bartol, and also from Ingold; he asked to be remembered.”

  “Marái'sta!” Fritjof barked. Dagney turned to him and bowed, speaking words in a contrite tone. He stared at her, then turned again to Cillian, who repeated the words in Fritjof’s language, or so I guessed: I could only pick out the names. Was she telling him where we had been, or planned to go? Why had she spoken so that I could understand?

  After another minute of scrutiny Fritjof dismissed us. I put down my wine cup, standing. In one swift movement, Fritjof stood beside me. He took my chin in his hand, firmly, as I instinctively pulled away. He tilted my head upward, studying my face. After the first glance, I kept my eyes downcast. I felt his eyes travel up and down my body, his hand moving from my face to my arm. I willed myself not to flinch. “Hm,” he grunted. He let me go.

  Trying not to tremble, I followed Dagney out of the room and the hall. The sun shone. I blinked, adjusting my eyes. “Are you all right?” she asked.

  I took a deep breath. “Yes,” I said. “I think so.” Was I? I had never been looked at like that in my life, assessed as if I were a pig at market. “The last time,” I said to Dagney, “a man attempted to make me pay attention to him against my will, I punched him until he was sick.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Good for you. But punching Fritjof might not be diplomatic.”

  I stared at her for a moment. Her mouth quirked. I started to laugh. I covered my mouth with my hands, knowing the laughter was a release of tension, not wanting to draw attention to myself. I focused on what I had sensed in the room.

  “Dagney, is the Teannasach a prisoner?”

  She looked around. We were alone. “I think so. Cillian, if he can keep calm, and not go off hot-headed, should be safe. Fritjof thinks he is just a clerk. As for Arden—” She shook her head. “I am afraid of what Fritjof is planning for Donnalch.”

  I thought about what she had said to the Teannasach. “Who is Ingold?” I asked. “Was it his torp we were to visit, after Sinarrstorp?”

  She smiled. “No, although it is not an uncommon name, and there is an Ingoldstorp, much further east. Ingold—or Ingjald, to give it its proper pronunciation—is a character in a danta, a king who invites other kings to a feast in his new hall, and then, as they sleep that night, burns it down, killing them all.”

  I had heard this before somewhere. “A warning, then.”

  “A warning,” she agreed, beginning to walk towards the women's hall. “Donnalch would know which torps I could reasonably visit, and Ingoldstorp is not one of them. And he knows the danta well.”

  We returned to the women’s hall, to spend the afternoon outdoors, on benches along the western face of the building, overlooking the sea. The Marai women spun wool, their drop spindles in constant motion. They had offered me a spindle, but I did not know how to spin, a fact which led to much chatter. Dagney played her ladhar, singing occasionally, but mostly allowing the notes of the melodies to weave among the women's talk. A few women rocked cradles with one foot, and small children played around the benches. Seabirds circled and cried, wheeling and gliding in constant motion.

  I wondered where Clio was, and if I would be allowed to see her. I wondered if Ardan were safe, if any of us were. I played clapping games with the children, and gave in to encouragement to use a spindle, resulting in uneven, lumpy yarn and much laughter; even the little girls could spin better than I. The waves swelled and retreated. I watched the flow and eddies, how the rocks were exposed and covered, where the weed grew thickest, thinking about how to fish these waters, how to navigate them, my years of training guiding my thoughts. It was something to do.

  Chapter Twelve

  Before we went back to the hall for dinner that night, one of the women brought me two silver bracelets, and a pendant of a clear, honey-coloured stone. She touched my hair, making a 'tsk' sound, but there was nothing to be done with it. Dagney refused bracelets, explaining, I thought, from her gestures, that she could not play the ladhar with them on, but accepted an enamelled comb for her hair, and a brooch.

  “I will not sit with you tonight,” she told me as we waited for the rest of the women, “I am directed to play during the meal.” For this occasion, several of the other women would be joining us in the hall. They had been busy dressing hair and comparing jewellery for the last hour. I remembered what Dagney had said: that here a woman's status came, usually, from her husband. Whose wives were these, to be invited tonight? Or did they all ‘belong’ to Fritjof?

  “Dagney,” I said, quietly, “are these women accepting of this new way of life? Surely they find it restrictive, if they used to live and work with their men?”

  “I do not know,” she replied. “I have not heard any complaints: the Fräskaran seems to accept it, and the others take their cue from her. But I wonder where his brother’s wife is, and her women: I fear for them.”

  “You think they are dead?”

  “Or perhaps held captive elsewhere. In either case, it appears to be enough to keep these women silent, even if they dislike the changes in their freedom.”

  Her answer left me unsatisfied. I tried to imagine Huld in this setting. Could she submit to this isolation, this reduction in her freedom, her life? Perhaps, I thought, when the alternative is death. But I thought too that she would find a way to resist.

  The hall glowed with lantern light; I recognized the odour of burning whale oil. Candles gave further light to the head table. I followed the other women to a table near the side of the hall, but not too far from the head table. As we sat, Cillian slipped into the seat beside me.

  “I am here as your translator,” he said. “There will be speeches tonight.”

  “Niáll is still unwell?”

  “He should be, “he said, his voice conversational. “I put enough holly berries in his sauce to make him sick for several days. The other men who shared that bowl are also ill, but not as severely. He took most of the holly, as I intended. It shouldn't kill him, but he won't be going far from the latrines for a day or so.”

  I smothered a laugh. “That was well done,” I said. I noticed a glance or two towards us.

  “We shouldn't talk,” Cillian said. “When I translate, I will add a sentence, or two, to the end of each translation. If you must respond, make it sound like a question; both languages use an upward inflection for questions, so those around us will think you are asking only for explanation. Now, I am going to make some signs of worship, as if we had been praying. Repeat them after me.”

  He touched his forehead, lips, and breast. I did the same. I wondered whose god this honoured.

  A few minutes later we all rose, as Fritjof and Rothny entered to make their way to the high table. Both, tonight, wore robes of fur, Fritjof's trimmed with the pelts of winter weasels, pure white except for the black-tipped tails; Rothny's with the feathers of the snow owl
, white with black barring. Behind them came a boy of fourteen or fifteen—Fritjof's son?—and then the same men, the Sorham Härren, who had sat with them at the mid-day meal, and finally by Donnalch. Two guards followed the procession. When all were seated, they took their places, each at one end of the dais.

  Fritjof stood again, gesturing to us to stay seated. He spoke briefly, sounding cheerful and relaxed.

  Cillian translated. “Enjoy the meal. Drink heartily. Did you note how he is treating our leader?”

  I smiled and nodded. Fritjof had given the Sorham Härren, mere landholders, precedence over the Teannasach of Linrathe. It was a subtle but clear insult, and, I thought, a message: he is sure of Sorham, or at least where these men hold sway.

  The meal was impressive, especially for early spring. The high table ate fish, followed by platters of small birds—the shore plovers, I guessed—and then a haunch of venison. The lower tables fared nearly as well. We too ate fish, and then deep pies made from the lesser meats and organs of the deer, rich with gravy. Where the head table had wine, we had ale, and we were given only dried fruits to nibble on after the pies, but it was by far the best meal I had eaten in a very long time.

  When the platters had been cleared and the cups refilled, Fritjof stood again. Benches scraped as we stood for the Härskaran. Fritjof raised his glass and shouted a toast. The room shouted back.

  “To the Marai kingdom restored,” Cillian said. “He is claiming this land.”

  I watched the two Härren. Their pleasure in toasting Fritjof looked real to me. What will Sorley think? I wondered, remembering him telling me that he would be coming home soon, to this province, to learn to be the head of his holding. Was either of these two men his father? I slid my eyes to Donnalch. He held his cup high, his face impassive.