I shuddered. “And his men?”
“If you had been at the Ti’ach longer,” Cillian said, “you might have heard some of the danta that concern themselves with the exploits of the Marai, of their raids and battles and the glory those brought. There were—are, no doubt—those among the Marai who thought they had grown soft and land-bound under Herlief, weak. Fritjof would have had little trouble in convincing that faction to support him.”
“And now they all must support him, or die,” I said.
We saw the occasional other fishing boat, but they were well in from our position, fishing the more sheltered waters. In mid-afternoon, a headland reached out towards us; as we passed it, I saw the half-moon curve of a long cove, and the sparkle of a stream running down the cliffside. I could see no buildings, and no boats. “We're going in,” I said, through lips chapped now from the salt air, the wind, and thirst. I gybed the sail. “Prepare to row,” I ordered Cillian, bringing the sail down as we reached the beach. He rowed us in fairly smoothly; when I could see the bottom close, I jumped off, to haul her up to the beach. As I did, I felt a sharp pain in my upper chest.
“Be quick,” I said to Cillian. “Drink your fill, fill the water-pot, and we'll get off this beach before someone sees us.” While he knelt at the stream, I untied the top of my tunic and felt my chest where my attacker had scratched me last night. The skin was tender, and felt puffy. I cursed. I had, in my haste and fear, forgotten a basic principle: I had not soaked the ragged cuts in sea water. Over the years, I had escaped infection from hooks and spines, rock scrapes and knife-slips, by immersing the injury in the ocean for several minutes. There was only one thing to do.
“Cillian,” I called. He looked up from filling the water jug. “Come here, will you, when you're finished that?” I walked to the sea edge, bending to wash my secca thoroughly, holding it in the waves. Cillian approached me. “Put the water-pot in the boat,” I directed. “Then I need you to do something for me.”
When he stood before me, I said, “Look.” I pulled open my tunic, pushing aside the torn pieces to expose my breast. He looked away. “I'm injured,” I said bluntly. “The man last night scratched me, and the scratches are infected. Tell me what you see.” He brought his eyes to my breast.
“There is pus, here,” he said, reaching a finger out and then pulling it back.
“I thought so,” I answered. “Take my secca, and cut the scratches deeper.” I saw the look of horror on his face. “I can't do it myself,” I said, “and it has to be done, or the infection will spread. The secca is clean. I will hold my breast taut, but you must make the cuts. And if you must touch my breast to do so, then do it. Can you do this?”
He looked at me for a long moment. “I can,” he said. I flattened my breast down with my hands, feeling the tug and stab of the infection as I did. He brought the knife tip down. I closed my eyes, biting my lip against the sharp, exquisite pain of the blade. He made three cuts. I did not cry out.
“Thank you,” I said, when he was done. Blood dripped down my breast, staining the tunic. He handed me back the secca. “I will soak it now, in the sea.” I told him. “Then I will get a drink, and we will go back out.”
I waded out into the water, crouching down so the sea would cover my chest. I steadied myself with one hand, and with the other massaged the cuts, pushing pus and blood out, letting the sea-water in. It stung, worse than the initial cuts. Involuntary tears sprung to my eyes.
When I felt I had soaked long enough, I stood and walked back out of the water. At the stream, I knelt and drank deeply, resisting the desire to rinse the cuts in fresh water. I retied my tunic as best I could, and we pushed off, rowing back out to deep water.
The sun and wind dried my clothes, and as I sat by the tiller I wrapped Cillian's cloak around me until I was warm again. Cillian caught more fish for supper. As the sun set in the west, I saw him gazing out at the mainland. The breeze was dropping with the sun; we sailed slowly now.
“I know where we are,” he said. “That is Linrathe, now. You were right, Lena. Even on horseback we would not have got this far, so fast.”
“If that is Linrathe,” I said, “we could make land, find a cove or even a settlement.”
“Not tonight,” he answered. “These waters are called the Maw: along these cliffs there are submerged rocks, sharp and frequent as teeth, for many miles; a barrier to landing. Some say that is why the Sterre is built where it is, to extend the sea barrier on the land. But tomorrow, yes, further south, we can get water and food, and send word overland, perhaps.”
“I see,” I said, feeling the disappointment. “We should anchor soon. If this is the Maw, then we cannot afford to be caught amongst the rocks in the dark.”
We dropped the anchor stone, and ate the fish Cillian had caught. The little boat rocked gently on the waves. The evening star appeared on the horizon, and streams of gulls headed back towards land, over our heads. The approaching night felt peaceful, but my thoughts were not. All afternoon I had considered what Cillian had told me about Fritjof, and the threat to both Linrathe and the Empire. Our two countries must work together, if were we to defeat the Marai. Cillian knew this better than anyone else, but he hated the Empire. He needed to hear what I had to tell him.
“Cillian,” I said, “I have something to say, and I think it will make you angry. Will you hear me out?”
In the fading light, I could not read the expression on his face. “I suppose,” he said flatly.
“My first night at the Ti’ach,” I said, “I asked Sorley why you seemed to resent me.” That wasn’t quite true, but I wanted to deflect any reaction away from Sorley. “He told me about your mother.” I paused.
“He shouldn’t have,” Cillian said. “It was not his story to tell.”
“Nonetheless,” I said. “It is done. I have a question, and it might be important. Do you know nothing of your father?”
He did not reply at first. Overhead, gulls continued their arrowed flight back to land, silhouettes now against the darkening sky. “Nothing,” he said finally, “except that he was a soldier of the southern Empire. My mother was sixteen. She lived just north of the Wall, on a small steading. Whoever he was, he took advantage of a young girl, and then deserted her.”
I had one more question. “How old are you, Cillian?”
“Thirty-three. Why?”
A fish jumped, splashing back into the water off the bow. I did the calculation: thirty-four years ago, Callan would have been seventeen. “I think,” I said slowly, “that the Emperor, Callan—he might be your father. You have a strong look of him.”
I saw his head turn towards me. “You know the Emperor well enough to say this?” It was not the response I had expected.
“I think I do,” I answered. “I have spent some hours in his company. I have seen him when he is pleased, and when he is angry, and it is when you are angry you look most like him. But even that first night—I thought I knew you, but it is your likeness to Callan I was seeing.”
“More proof of the malevolence of Empires, then,” he said.
“That isn’t fair!” I said. “Callan would have been a soldier then, a cadet, actually, nothing more. He may have been posted away from the Wall, without ever knowing your mother was with child.”
“But he never came back,” he said into the night. I had no answer for that.
“Cillian,” I said after a moment, “this goes beyond you. The Teannasach and the Emperor together paid homage to the Eastern Empire, to what it once was. Many of my people crossed into your land at Partition; we share blood and history, and you more recently than most, perhaps. We must remember that, and work together, if we are to defeat Fritjof.” I waited. There was no answer, only the steady slap of the waves, and the beating of wings overhead, in the dark sky.
He tucked up against me more willingly that night, under the heavy cloak, although he kept his back to me, afraid, I surmised, of his body's involuntary response to mine. He held no attractio
n for me, and I doubted I truly did for him, but we are not always captains of our bodies' reactions. I woke heavy-headed and aching, to a grey morning; a light fog hung over the sea, beneath a clouded sky. “We will have to sail with the land in sight,” I told Cillian as we prepared the boat. “If we lose the land, we can lose all sense of direction, and the wind is no help; it can change in a moment.” The wind, in fact, still blew from the north-east, but it was gustier, possibly presaging a storm. I would be busier with the sails today.
As I reached up to adjust the sail, pain shot through my breast. The area had been throbbing when I awoke, but I had ignored it, telling myself it was just the throb of any cut. But the pain said otherwise. When I had the sail set and the lines fixed, I touched my breast, feeling beneath the fabric of my tunic the inflammation of infection. I shivered. If draining and soaking the scratches yesterday hadn't cleared the infection, doing it again would not likely help. The salve which might have had been in my saddlebag. I pushed the fabric aside, looking down. Red streaks extended from the cuts, too far to be just the usual redness of healing. I closed my eyes. “Cillian,” I said. Something in my voice alerted him.
“What's wrong?” he asked.
“My scratches are infected,” I said, as calmly as I could. “Badly. The seawater did not help; I did it too late. I must show you how to sail, alone, because you may need to do so. We'll head for land as soon as it's safe, and I should be able to sail until then, but you need to know how. So, come, sit beside me.”
He came forward. As the sun rose behind the clouds, and the fog slowly dissipated, I taught him the basic theory of sailing. I showed him how to judge the wind by the thin tell-tale strip tied to the mast; I explained how to trim and let out sail, how to tack, how to gybe, and when, how to furl and tie the sail before taking to the oars. Then I sat back and let him do it, watching, suggesting, correcting, feeling the throb in my breast deepen as the first signs of fever invaded my body.
Sweat beaded my brow and I was wrapped in the cloak against deep shivers by mid-day. “We must be past the Maw by now,” I said. “We should find a harbour.” The wind was strengthening, the gusts coming more frequently, and I was afraid for the boat under Cillian's hand if we had to run in front of a gale. One misjudgment and we would capsize, and that would be the end.
I turned my head to look at the sky behind us, and caught my breath. On the horizon, further out than us and still a good distance behind was a boat, a ship, much larger than us, square-rigged and moving fast.
“Cillian,” I croaked. He looked at me; I raised an arm to point, ignoring the pain that shot through my breast as I did.
“That's a Marai ship,” he said.
“After us,” I said.
“Can they see us?” he asked.
“Doubt it,” I said. Talking took effort. “Maybe in the sun, but everything is too grey today.”
“What do we do?” His mind was off the sails. A gust hit, swelling the sail, pushing the boat forward and sideways, rocking it violently.
“Trim the sails,” I gasped. “Quickly!”
He leapt to the lines. As he did, another gust hit, this time on the opposite side of the sail. The wind swirled. The boat swung, sails flapping. A wave broke over the bow, soaking us. I pushed myself up, shedding the cloak, reaching for the lines, ignoring pain, ignoring weakness. Cillian stumbled, falling against the gunwale, grabbing desperately for something to hang on to. He scrabbled against the boards, found his feet, reached for the sail. I crawled forward, and together we furled and tied the sail, leaving the little boat drifting on the growing swells.
I fell against the gunwale. “You'll have to row in,” I said. My head spun. I crept to the centre of the boat, where a dead weight would best lessen pitch. “Give me the cloak,” I muttered. I felt the weight of the cloth cover me; I heard the creaking of the oars in their locks, and then I knew nothing at all.
Chapter Fifteen
Or almost nothing. I have confused memories of being moved, of voices and pain, and then truly nothing until I woke—when? where?—in a bed, under warm blankets, in a dim and quiet room. I blinked, even the muted light causing my eyes to hurt. My mouth felt parched, tasting foul. I moved my head, looking for water.
“Lena?” My mother's voice. What was she doing in Linrathe? I’m dreaming, I thought, but then she was bending over me, her hand on my cheek.
“Lena,” she said again. “Can you hear me?”
I focused on her face. She looked worried. “Yes,” I whispered. “Thirsty.”
She smiled. “Let me help you up,” she said. She put one hand behind my shoulders and pushed me up, propping me on pillows. I tried to help her, but I was as weak as a newborn mouse, and sitting up brought a spasm of coughing, deep and painful. When the coughing stopped, I was exhausted. The room spun. My mother held a cup to my lips. “Slowly,” she warned. I took a sip, and another, the water cool on my raw throat.
“What happened?” I croaked. She shook her head.
“Later,” she said. “A sip or two more, and then you should sleep again.” I took another tiny bit of water. Then I closed my eyes to let sleep take me again.
When I woke the second time, I felt stronger, and the room stayed in one place. My mother was at my bedside in an instant—she must be watching me constantly, I thought—this time with a bowl of warm water, with which she washed me, as if I were a baby, before dressing me again in a clean, warmed nightgown, rubbing my back when the change in position brought on the coughing again. She still wouldn't let me ask questions, but this time, even in my weakness, I felt myself getting annoyed.
I let her brush my hair and feed me some broth, but when I felt myself slipping back towards sleep, I pushed the spoon away and said as firmly as I could, “Where am I?”
“Berge,” my mother said.
“How?”
“Cillian brought you,” she answered.
I tried to shake my head, but the movement hurt. “No,” I said. “He can't sail.”
“He didn't,” she said, smiling. “He rowed the boat you took into a cove, and by blind luck it had a fishing settlement. Cillian convinced the fisherman to bring you both to Berge. How, I am not sure.”
“Why are you here?”
The smile disappeared. “Oh, Lena,” she said. “Casyn sent for me. He thought you were dying, and in truth so did I, when I arrived. You had an infection raging in your blood, from the scratches on your chest, and another in your lungs. You have been very ill, Lena, so ill it took all my knowledge to keep you alive.” Tears shone in her eyes.
“But you did it,” I whispered.
“Only because you are so strong,” she answered. Something she had said came back into focus.
“Casyn is here?”
“Not right now,” she replied. “He'll be back soon. That's enough talking, Lena. Rest again. The Empire is safe, and Linrathe, and that is all you need to know.”
My mother was right. It was all I needed to know then. For the next few days I slept, waking to eat a bit, be washed, and after the first day, be taken to the latrine and made to walk a few steps. This took all my strength, of body and of mind. Anything else seemed unimportant, and very far away. But I coughed less every day; soon I could sit up on my own, and eat porridge and soft-cooked eggs by myself, and as my body grew in strength, my mind moved away from self-absorption. I was allowed no visitors, and this made me wonder.
“Mother, why can't I see Cillian?” I demanded one morning. “Or is he hurt, or sick, too?”
“No,” she said. “Cillian is well. But right now, Lena, your body is still weak, and you could catch any illness very quickly. Until I am sure you are strong enough, you cannot risk visitors.” Her voice was firm, the healer, not the mother, speaking, but she was my mother, and watching her hands automatically retying her hair, and the small lines between her eyes, I knew there was something she was not telling me.
“How is Kira?” I realized I had not asked about my sister yet. Was that wha
t she was keeping from me?
Her face cleared. “Kira is well, very well,” she said. “I have left Tirvan in competent hands, that I know. She will have four deliveries to cope with this spring, and Casse is failing, I'm afraid, but I think she will live through this summer, and perhaps see one more autumn hunt.”
“Kira is seventeen now,” I said slowly. “A woman.”
“She is,” my mother said. I could hear the pride in her voice, for the daughter that had been her apprentice and was now her equal.
“She will stay in Tirvan?” I asked. She would have the choice, now, to leave for another village, to be their healer and midwife, if she so wished.
My mother laughed. “What do you think?” she asked.
I smiled, thinking of my sister. “She'll stay,” I agreed. “What else has happened in Tirvan? I've been gone so long now. Tell me what everyone is doing.”
For the next hour, my mother recounted the doings of my home village in the nearly two years I had been gone. My small cousin Pel was gone, now, of course; the men had come for him last autumn, a year late, but the need to concentrate the Empire's forces on the Wall had kept the soldiers from Festival and from claiming their sons. Even last autumn, my mother told me, only a few men had come, and all the boys, the village had been told, were to be taken to the Eastern Fort, as far away from the fighting as possible.
Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy Page 55