Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy

by Marian L Thorpe

  At a word and gesture from Fritjof, we sat. Fritjof began to speak.

  “Tomorrow, I will be crowned,” Cillian translated. “He has killed his brother, and many of those loyal to his brother. A new day dawns, one that will see the Marai returned to their rightful place as lords of sea and land, not just in the north, but south as well. Our leader is a prisoner, a guest in name only, and his guard is dead.” The room had begun to murmur at Fritjof's mention of the south.

  He held up a hand for silence. Cillian followed his words in a quiet undertone. “Yes, the south. We know the stories are no more than old wives' tales and meaningless prophecies. We sailed west for many years, many generations, and found nothing, until only I had the courage to sail east. Rich lands lie close at hand. I am going to plead illness tomorrow morning, and escape while all eyes are on the crowning.”

  “I will come with you?” I said, remembering to make my statement sound like a question. “Did he say he sailed east?”

  “Linrathe we have, or at least we have their leader, and without him they will turn from the fight easily,” Cillian translated, his eyes on Fritjof. “He did, although I do not know what he means by that. And I will be better alone.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  He frowned. “He is speaking of you,” he whispered. “Listen. And for the lands south of Linrathe, south of the Wall, lands we know only from stories, I will hold as hostage the woman Lena, sent to Linrathe from the southern Empire to ensure the peace between them. More than hostage; on his birthday, when he becomes adult, I will give her to my son Leik as his wife.”

  What? Heads turned to look at me. I looked up at Fritjof, hatred and fear welling. I glanced once at Donnalch, whose eyes told me nothing. Had he agreed to this? I looked at Leik. He gazed back, interest on his face. Then, slowly, I turned my gaze back to Fritjof, and bowed my head. Let him think I accepted it. “When is the boy's birthday?” I whispered to Cillian.

  “In a few days,” he said. Fritjof was speaking again. Cillian translated, the explosion of cheers and shouting in the room almost obscuring the last sentences. “Tomorrow I am crowned. Three days after that, Leik reaches his manhood. We will celebrate that, and give him time to enjoy his bride, and then we will take to our boats and sail south, Marai once again, masters of the sea, conquerors. Now, bards, music! I will take a rowboat when all eyes are on the crowning, and cross to the mainland. I will try to steal a horse somewhere.” The music began, a fast, bright tune.

  “Steal a fishing boat from a harbour. You can sail faster than riding,” I said.

  “I can't sail a boat.”

  “Then you need me; I can. I will find a way to stay back. And I will not be that boy's wife.” Cillian said nothing. I glanced at him, to see him staring at Donnalch, indecision on his face.

  “If you are at the jetty soon after the crowning begins, then, yes,” he said finally. “But I will not wait.”

  “I will be there.” But how?

  After that, the night was music and drinking. The women talked, ignoring me. Men drank and gamed. A server bent to speak to Cillian. “I am summoned,” he said to me. “I must go.” I watched him leave the hall. Who had asked for him? Why? A thread of fear tightened around my thoughts.

  One of the musicians—a man—stood, calling something. The room quietened. The three musicians, Dagney among them, I knew, although I could not see her—were seated at the far side of the high table. This man had stepped up onto the dais to make himself heard. Once the room was close to silent, he began to sing.

  The tune rollicked, and the audience sang along. At the end of every verse, they thumped the tables and drank. A drinking song. We had those, too. I could not sing the words, but I joined in the drinking, although I swallowed very little. I wanted to look as if I were trying to fit in. But sips of ale and table-thumping did not keep the fear at bay. To distract myself, I thought about what Fritjof had said. He had sailed east, and returned to tell his tale. No fever had ravaged his men, and he had found a people whose customs he liked enough to copy. What did this mean?

  At the end of the song, men left the room singly and in pairs, a few from each table. One of the women tapped me on the shoulder. I looked around. She stood beside me. She cocked her head, and mimed squatting slightly, then pointed at me. “Ja,” I answered. I followed her out into the night.

  Our bladders relieved, I lingered, looking up at the stars and the sliver of the moon, the cool breeze off the sea welcome. No hint of poor weather on its way, although I knew as well as any coastal dweller how quickly that could change. There might be fog in the morning, I thought; the breeze was slight, and dying.

  My companion tugged on my arm. I followed her again, back into the light and heat and noise of the hall. When we got back to our table, Leik sat on the bench, talking to the other women. He stood at our arrival, politely gesturing for me to sit. I did my best to smile at him, and took my place. He sat beside me, offering me a cup of wine.

  He looked more like Rothny than Fritjof, except for his eyes. Those were Fritjof's, and they looked at me the same way, assessing, the undercurrent of desire evident in the heaviness of his eyelids and the set of his lips. Manhood might be official in three days, I thought, but he had experience of women. He took my hand, running a finger over my wrist and along the vein. I pulled my hand back, unthinking. He frowned, and grabbed it, holding it tightly. I forced a smile, and dropped my eyes, playing the shy maiden, anger coursing along every nerve of my body.

  Leik laughed, and stood. He put his fingers under my chin, forcing my head up. I kept my eyes down. He ran a finger along my neck, to where the tunic began. He said something, holding up three fingers. Three days, he was telling me. I nodded. “Ja,” I whispered.

  He walked away. The other women chattered at me. I drank the wine, willing the trembling to stop. I wanted to talk to Dagney. I wanted to not be here at all. I had agreed to be hostage to the Empire's truce, but this had gone beyond what I thought was expected of me. I must escape.

  The men were getting louder, the laughter more raucous. At the tables where dice were thrown, tempers flared. I could feel sweat between my breasts and on the nape of my neck. On the far side of the hall, a man stood suddenly, shouting, clearing the table in front of him with one sweep of his arm. The women beside me said something, my earlier companion grasping my arm. When I looked at her, she swept her head towards the doors. Time to leave.

  No one blocked our departure, or bothered us on the path back to the women's hall. No one took any notice of us at all, I thought, although men were coming and going from the feast. The breeze had dropped, the still air cool on my skin. Wisps of mist or low cloud floated over the stars. I could hear the lap of waves on the shore, and the faint bump of a boat against a jetty. Just as we reached the hall, I took a last look out across the water, along the mainland. A light flickered, very faintly, somewhere south along the coast. A house? On the coast like that, they were likely to be fisher-folk.

  Inside the women's hall the fire was banked and glowing. Women who had not attended the feast sat around it, drinking tea. When we came in, they jumped up, clearly asking questions. Someone pointed me towards the fire, handing me a mug. I sat, glad of the tea, but as I sipped it, fatigue dragged through me. The women chattered. I noticed eyes turning my way. Finishing the drink, I stood, pointing towards my sleeping chamber and miming sleep. Heads nodded; one word—probably good night, or the equivalent—was repeated. “Takkë,” I said, “takkë.”

  They are talking about me and my 'betrothal' to Leik, I thought as I undressed in the small space, lit by one candle. If women here take their status from their husbands, then I will be more important than any of them but Rothny. They won't like that.

  And perhaps no one would be upset if I couldn't attend the coronation. But how to get out of it? My eyes roamed around my sleeping area. A glimmer of an idea came to me. I would sleep on it, I thought, and see if it still seemed a good idea in the morning.

  D
agney came in, very late, barely disturbing me. Just before dawn, the seabirds already calling, I opened my eyes, wide awake. I lay, listening, hearing the first stirrings of other people. There were fires to tend, food to prepare, and much else to do, on this momentous day.

  When the voices in the hall grew louder and more numerous, I got up. I went out to the latrines, came back in, accepted a mug of tea. Dagney yawned her way into the room, cupping both hands around her mug as if in need of the warmth. Her face sagged with tiredness.

  “Did you hear what the king said last night?” I asked, as soon as I could. “About sailing east?”

  “I did,” she said. “If he speaks the truth, it changes so much.”

  “Do you doubt him?”

  She shook her head. “Not really. But who are the people he found? Will they follow him here, to be yet another threat, either from disease or by arms? What does it mean, for us, for the Marai, for your Empire? There is no one I can ask,” she finished, and then brightened slightly, “unless I couch it in terms of danta, of songs—maybe that would work, if they thought my interest was only that of the scáeli, wanting to write a song in honour of the voyage. Perhaps I will mention it to Fritjof later.”

  “Do you play again today?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Lena, I must tell you this: I spoke to our leader briefly last night; we had only a minute. He wants you to know he did not betray your presence in our lands to Fritjof purposely; he and Ardan were overheard, when they thought themselves alone and free to speak. A mistake, and one he regrets deeply.”

  “Had he any words of advice?”

  She shook her head. “None. Or perhaps no time to speak them; Fritjof called him away.”

  “And Ardan is dead,” I said. She looked startled. “Cillian told me.”

  She closed her eyes. “Dear gods,” she said.

  “And you are caught in this too,” I pointed out. She made a gesture of negation.

  “I may have been anyhow,” she said. “Fritjof knows me as a bard, a scáeli, and might well have demanded my presence here.” I thought she was making excuses, but I let it go; I couldn't carry that guilt right now. I needed to be focused.

  “What will you do?” she murmured.

  “Better you don't know,” I answered. She held my gaze a moment, then nodded slightly and turned away to pour more tea.

  “By tradition,” she said, “there is no food served until after the crowning. And do not drink too much: the ceremony is long, and no one can leave. I am glad it is spring, and the sun not too hot.”

  “Where is the crowning?” I asked, keeping my voice casual.

  “On the highest point of the island. Fritjof will face north, towards the lands of the Marai; the witnesses—which will be everyone on the island—also face north. During the ceremony, we see only his back. The priest who crowns him is the only one to see his face until the crown is on his head. Only then will he turn to greet his people.”

  “Thank you.” Information I needed; the chance of me being seen slipping away towards the mainland, to the east, were negligible, if I kept to the cliffside. I took my mug to the table, then stopped, frowning slightly. I rubbed my lower belly. The girl serving the tea held up the mug, asking a question. I shook my head. “Na, takkë.”

  We dressed and donned ornaments, more than for last night's feast. I, Dagney explained, was to walk just behind Rothny, as befitted my status as Leik's betrothed. She and I, and her serving girls, would come last, after everyone else had gone to the ritual grounds.

  I slipped the eating-knife into its pocket in my sleeve. We would go from the ritual to yet another meal, a simple one of smoked fish and bread, so that the kitchen-folk could be at the crowning. The feast tonight would make up for it, Dagney assured me. Then it was time for her to go, to play as the people gathered. She touched my arm, gently, and left.

  I sat, waiting. Women began to leave in groups. When only a few remained, I slipped out to the latrines. Very carefully, I drew the long skirt of my gown up, and with my woman's knife I made a small and shallow cut, high on my thigh, wincing at the pain. I hoped I had judged the cut right: deep enough to bleed, but not too quickly. I wiped the knife, returning it to its pocket.

  When I returned to the hall Rothny stood alone, except for her two servants. She gestured to me; we needed to go. I nodded, and followed her out of the hall.

  We walked up the path, past the feasting hall, climbing towards the broad summit of the island. When we about half-way, I stopped, clutching my belly, moaning. Rothny frowned. I looked up at her, trying to look regretful. I pulled up my skirt just enough for her to see the blood trickling down my leg.

  She said something, sharp and angry, shaking her head. She turned to the youngest servant, giving orders; the girl looked stunned, bursting into tears. Rothny gave her a push, looking at me, pointing back to the women's hall. The message was clear. The girl was to accompany me back to the women's hall, missing the coronation. She was small, and young, no match for my skills. And by sheerest luck, no other woman was at her bleeding time, or if she was, she was watching the crowning from some hidden place on the island. The hall was empty. I could make my escape.

  The girl grabbed my arm, pulling me along the path back to the women's hall. I let it happen, allowing her to think she was in charge. At the hall, she shoved me towards my sleeping chamber. I took one stumbling step forward, then pivoted, keeping my body crouched, and lunged upwards at her, punching her in the stomach. She gasped, doubling over, but she had no air in her lungs with which to scream. I had her on the ground, my hand over her mouth, before she could take a breath.

  She stared up at me with frightened eyes. I pulled a strip of cloth from the pocket of my skirt, a strip cut from my lighter riding tunic early this morning, and gagged her. Then I rolled her over, and with more cloth strips I tied her hands and feet. I dragged her into the sleeping chamber, put her on the bed, and tied her to it. She would come to no harm.

  I felt her eyes on me as I stripped off the skirt and pulled on my riding breeches and boots. I reached up to the shelf for my few things: the wrapped blood cloths, my comb, my books. The books were gone. When had I seen them last? There was no time to think about it. I pushed things into my saddlebags, slung them over my shoulder, and started for the door.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I scrambled downhill, keeping behind boulders and in dips of the ground whenever I could. The breeze was in my face; it would carry any sound I made towards the crowd watching the crowning, but they would be, I hoped, too engrossed in the ceremony to care.

  Cillian waited at the jetty. He had untied the small rowboat, his small pack already stowed under the seat. Wordlessly I slipped onto the boat, pushing my saddlebags against Cillian’s pack, steadying the boat against the dock with one hand. Cillian climbed in, the boat rocking as he took his seat. I pushed off, and began to row.

  The oarlocks squealed. Cursing—Cillian had had time to remedy this, had he known to—I stopped rowing to dig in my bag. I found my blood cloths, pulled the oars up, and wrapped and tied cloths around the shafts. Cillian offered no help. I shoved the empty case back into the bag and picked up the oars again. The tide was rising. We reached the other jetty in a matter of minutes. Cillian clambered out to tie the boat. I unwrapped the cloths from the oars and stuffed them in my bag, not bothering with the case. I pulled Cillian's pack out from beneath the seat, handed it to him, and stepped up to the jetty. Without speaking, we climbed the angled path to the top of the cliff. At the top, Cillian broke into a run. I kept pace, the leather saddlebags bouncing on my shoulder, following him east and south until my side stabbed me with every breath. Only when we reached a small stand of pines did he stop.

  “We need to find a torp,” he panted. “We need horses.”

  I shook my head. Hadn't he listened? “Too risky. Too slow. We steal a boat. We can sail faster than riding. A lot faster.”

  He stared at me, a muscle working in his jaw. “Where shou
ld we go?” he said finally.

  I had thought about this. “Berge. Or, not Berge, but the fort just north of it, at the Wall. There will be ships there, almost certainly, and it will be easy to get word to the White Fort, if that is where our leaders are.”

  “Gregor should have reached the White Fort by now,” Cillian argued. “Miach will be leading men north already.”

  “But not fast enough, and Fritjof will be sailing south, not marching. We need the Empire's ships to be waiting, and the Emperor must command that. He will believe me, Cillian, but we need to get to him as quickly as we can. And we are not doing that if we stand here arguing!”

  I saw the flicker in his eyes as he acknowledged the truth of what I said. We began to run again, angling west, back toward the coast.

  In mid-afternoon Cillian spotted a small cluster of buildings in a cove ahead of us. My eyes found ropes and floats, a pile of traps, the paraphernalia of fishing. I glanced to the sea; the tide was out, which meant the boat would be too. We would have to wait. Cillian scowled when I told him this, but said nothing. We found a group of boulders, warmed by the sun, and sat against them. Cillian dug in his pack, handing me a piece of bread. “There isn't much,” he said, “but we should eat a little.”

  I chewed it, calculating. The tide would turn soon. I expected the boat back in late afternoon, although it could be later, if the fishing had been good; there were still five or six hours of light. If we waited until a couple of hours after dark, we stood little chance of detection, and the tide would be nearly high again. But we would need to hide until then. I looked around.

  “What are you looking for?” Cillian asked. I explained. He frowned again. “Why don't we just keep going? This can't be the only fisherman's hut on this shore. And if they've sent men after us, they'll find us in that time.”

  He had a point. I glanced again at the buildings. The shed at the shore stood open, back and front, no boat inside. No boat pulled up on the beach. Cillian spoke the truth: we needed to keep going. I finished the bread. “You're right,” I said. “Let's go.”