“Lena!”
I turned to see Kyreth running towards me. “What is it?” I called, standing.
“There is a soldier, come to see you,” she said breathlessly. “An older man, with a beard.”
Casyn. I followed her through the village, walking quickly, resisting the impulse to run. He was standing outside Marta’s house, by its low wall, looking down the track towards us.
“Lena,” he said, and opened his arms. I went into them, hugging him tighter than the soldier’s embrace called for, resting against his strength. It was he who pulled back, just slightly, and I took the cue and stepped away, looking up into his lined face.
“I hoped I would see you,” I said. He smiled.
“You look well,” he said. “Very well. Your mother is skilled in healing. When Cillian brought you to the harbour, we thought you were dying.”
“I know,” I said. “I think I was. Casyn, thank you for sending for her.” The words were inadequate, but he understood.
“It was Marta’s idea. She said if anyone on this side of the Wall could save you it would be Gwen of Tirvan, and the fact she was your mother was even better. One of the fisherwomen here went, by boat, to save us sending a fighting man. Or woman,” he added.
How did Marta know of my mother? But there was a more pressing question. “What happened, Casyn? You turned Fritjof back, I know, but how? Where?”
He smiled again. “Shall we sit?” he said, indicating the steps leading down to the road. Kyreth had disappeared. We sat side by side. The stones were warm from the afternoon sun, now beginning to wester over the sea. Casyn said nothing for a minute, collecting his thoughts.
“When Cillian—or rather Piet, the fisherman, with Cillian and you on board—reached the military harbour, we had three ships at anchor: Skua, Osprey and Petrel, with crews totalling just under a hundred men. Cillian told us there was one Marai ship in pursuit, possibly, if they had not turned back, believing you dead; he guessed that ship was lightly crewed, perhaps no more than ten men.”
“Wait,” I said. “Why would they have believed us dead?”
“Ah, of course,” he answered, “you wouldn’t know. Cillian persuaded Piet to bring you here in his own boat. The one you took was towed out behind until the waters were deep, and then overturned, in the hope the pursuing ship would find it and think you drowned. As far as we know, it worked.”
“That was good thinking,” I admitted.
“It was,” Casyn agreed.
“Fritjof had said he would sail south three days after his crowning,” I said. “We must have been three days getting here, and the winds were with us. So you must have met him off the coast of Linrathe.”
Casyn shook his head. “Do you not remember? The weather was changing, the night you fell ill. The winds switched to the south. Cillian and Piet rowed here as much as they sailed. It gave us the advantage. We met them further north, and we took them almost entirely by surprise. They turned inland, rowing up a river to escape our larger ships, and were caught by Linrathe’s men: Lorcann, Donnalch’s brother, had been riding north at all speed, once he had gathered his troops. By pure chance, we came together nearly at the same place.”
“Is Fritjof dead?”
“No. He escaped north, back into Varsland. Lorcann tells me there are a hundred islands and inlets where he could have hidden. We chose not to pursue him.”
Lorcann tells me. A chill arose inside me. “Casyn,” I said. “What has happened to Donnalch?”
I saw the flash of pain on his face. “He is dead,” he said gently. “Fritjof killed him.”
I put up a hand to my mouth. The Teannasach, dead. “Dagney said he would,” I said after a moment.
Casyn raised an eyebrow. “Did she?”
“She tried to warn him, with a song she sung.” Casyn’s face showed doubt. I frowned. “Did you think it was because of me? Because I escaped?”
He spread his hands. “You and Cillian. It may have been part of the reason.”
“Dagney tried to warn him.” I repeated, my voice rising. “Did Fritjof kill Dagney too?”
“No. She is safe. Lorcann said that Fritjof would not kill a…a singer—although he used another word, or he would bring down the wrath of all their gods on his people.”
“A scáeli,” I said. “More than a singer. They keep the history of their people, in the songs and stories.” Emotions battled in me; relief for Dagney, sorrow for Donnalch. And Ardan, I remembered, who Fritjof had had killed earlier. Who else, either on the island or in the battle?
“Lena,” Casyn’s voice was solemn. “There is more, and this will be even harder to hear. Should I call your mother, to be with you?”
I stared at him. Was Callan dead? Or Garth? Skua had been among the ships in battle. I searched Casyn’s face: it was grave, and I could see sorrow in his eyes, but not, I thought, what I would see if his brother had been killed, or if he had to tell me that Garth was dead. I shook my head. “Tell me,” I said.
He sighed. “Fritjof taunted the men of Linrathe with Donnalch’s death. He had beheaded him, and carried his head with him on his ship.” I swallowed, hard. “He told them Donnalch was dead because he, Fritjof, had claimed you as hostage and bride for his son, and you had broken that treaty.” I must have made a sound, because he put out a hand to touch my shoulder. “He was trying to turn them, Lena, by telling them that you were untrustworthy, and by extension all the Empire as well. He failed: for the greatest part, the men of Linrathe stood with their leader and with us, and we prevailed against the Marai.” He fell silent. Cold emanated out from my core.
I forced the words through my lips. “For the greatest part?”
“There were some who believed him.” He took a breath. “Lena, do you remember the terms of the truce signed on the Wall? That your life was forfeit, were the truce to be broken?”
I nodded. “But the truce was not broken, not by us.”
He hesitated. “You killed a man,” he said finally.
“A man who tried to rape me! And that was not in Linrathe!”
“But it was in Sorham, which is Linrathe’s. But even without that, Lena, even if that killing could be explained and excused—which it is, in my mind—Fritjof claimed he killed the Teannasach as a direct response to your escape. Yours and Cillian’s.” He looked away.
“And?” I whispered. “What is it you aren’t telling me, Casyn?”
“Two men left the fight after hearing Fritjof’s words,” Casyn said, his voice almost a monotone. “They rode east, and south, to where Darel was.”
“No. Not Darel. No…” I started to weep. “How could I have foreseen this?” I said between sobs. “I was trying to save Donnalch, Casyn…oh, Darel…”
“By the terms of the truce Linrathe had the right,” Casyn said bleakly. “Although the right did not reside in those two men, and Lorcann has had them killed.”
“That will be little comfort to Turlo,” I sobbed. Casyn took my hand. We sat on the cooling steps as the sun dipped further into the sea and the light dimmed. Slowly, a cold truth crept into my battered and grieving mind. I took a deep breath, and another, and wiped my eyes and face with my free hand. “General.” My voice rasped with weeping, and a bout of coughing kept me from speaking for some minutes. Casyn took his hand away, straightening. I stood. He too brought himself to his feet. I looked up at him, controlling the coughs. “By the terms of the truce,” I said, “my life is forfeit too.”
His grey eyes never left mine. In them I saw regret, and deep pain, and the clear honesty I had always seen. “Yes, Guardswoman,” he answered.
I forced myself not to look away. “Better that I had died, then,” I said. “Does my mother know?”
He shook his head, a tiny motion. “No.”
No one has told her, I thought, but she is a council-leader, and she will know what the truce said. She can work it out. “Will you send her away, before…before it is done?”
“There will be a trial,” he
said. “For you, and for Cillian, although he will be tried by his own people, of course. Do you not want her here, for that? I cannot force her to go, Lena. She is a guest of Marta, and of Berge.”
He was right, of course. It was only my life he could order. “The trial is a formality,” I said. A shadow of indecision passed over his face.
“Much rests on it,” he answered. “Lorcann—he will be Teannasach soon, and is now save for the ceremony—thinks more in black and white than his brother did. He will, we are nearly sure, sign a permanent truce with the Empire, for we are not the enemy snapping at Linrathe’s heels, but rather an ally, now. And we too need Linrathe, as a buffer between us and the Marai. But before that, we—Callan—must prove he is a man of his word.”
I was a piece in the game, I thought, not for the first time, a piece of little worth, to be sacrificed to the greater plan. I remembered accusing Callan of treating the women’s villages that way, all those months ago at his winter camp, after the Lestian invasion. He had not denied it then, not entirely. I should have remembered that, when I agreed to be a hostage.
I took a deep breath against the welling anger and fear. “Thank you, General. Will I be told when the trial is?”
“Of course, Guardswoman. Expect it to be another week; I was here in part to judge if you were strong enough to be tried. My judgement is you need a little more time.”
“I am not strong enough to be executed?” I shot back.
He sighed. “Not that. But do you not want time with your mother, time to write letters?”
“No!” I snapped. “I do not want my mother to know. Better she thinks I died another way, a relapse perhaps. Can you grant me that, General?”
He spread his hands. “I could—but if she is still here, in Berge?”
“She won’t be,” I said. “I will find a way to send her home. Cannot I be tried at the White Fort?”
“Perhaps,” he answered. “I will suggest it.” His face softened. “Lena…”
“No, General,” I said, as coldly as I could. “We must be Guardswoman and General, now.” He held me in that grave, assessing gaze, for a heartbeat, and another. Then he nodded.
“Farewell, Guardswoman,” he said. “I will make my recommendations. Please let me know your mother’s plans.”
“I will, General,” I answered. “Farewell.”
I watched him walk away to the north. Suddenly my legs gave out. I sat, hard, on the steps, cold now in the dusk, and took several deep and unsteady breaths. Darel, I thought, tears starting again. Brave, funny, irreverent Darel. I hope it was a quick death. He was only fourteen, and so like his father. So like his father…the thought reverberated in my fogged mind. I must tell Casyn about Cillian, about his likeness to Callan. In the horror of what he had told me, I had not thought of it. Perhaps it could save his life.
“Lena?” My mother spoke from the porch. “Come in. It’s getting cold.”
I stood, wiping my eyes, wondering how to face her. But she had seen my hand go to my face, and came towards me. “What’s wrong? What did Casyn say to you?”
“Just…deaths,” I said. “He came to tell me of deaths. The Teannasach of Linrathe, and Turlo’s son, Darel. The other hostage.”
“Oh, Lena,” She put her arms around me, holding me. I took a deep breath, and started to cough again. I pulled away to cover my mouth, unable to stop the deep racking spasms. “Into the house,” she ordered, “and into bed. Now, Lena.”
She helped me up to the porch and up the stairs to my room. I undressed. She pulled a thick nightdress over my head and pulled back the covers for me. I climbed in, letting her tuck the blankets around me as if I were a child, piling pillows behind me so I was half-upright. “Tea, soup, and sleep,” she said. “Tea first, and a salve for your chest. I will be back in a few minutes.”
But it was Kyreth who brought me the tea, tasting of honey and herbs, warm and soothing for my raw throat. The coughing subsided. The salve my mother brought smelt of the same herbs, and it too warmed me where it was rubbed into the skin of my chest. I submitted to all these ministrations calmly, glad at some level of the distraction. But after I had drunk my soup, and another cup of tea, had had a heated stone tucked into the bedcovers at my feet, and the curtains closed against the night, I was left alone with the stark truths Casyn had told me. I was responsible for two deaths, of people I had known and liked. For that, I too would have to die.
Chapter Seventeen
I should not have slept, but there must have been poppy in that last cup of tea, for I did, for some hours. It was past midnight when I woke. I got up to use the chamberpot, afterwards pushing the curtains aside to look out into the night. Stars gleamed from between clouds, but there was no moon.
I would be sentenced to death, in a week or so. Cold words, to match the cold inside me. Oddly detached, I thought about what that would mean. How was it done? A knife to the throat? Hanging? I shivered. I would prefer the knife, I thought. Something quick. I remembered the gurgling, coughing death of the boy whose throat I had cut, when Leste had invaded, and that of the fisherman in the water. Maybe not. Although it would be only fair, somehow.
Only fair. What was fair about this? The cold in me coalesced into the ice of anger. I had risked my life to bring word of the Marai plans to the Emperor, and this was how I was rewarded? Should I have just allowed them to invade, while I myself became an unwilling bride?
The anger grew. I wanted to smash something, or scream, or both, but some vestige of civility, here in Marta’s house where I was a guest, kept me from doing so. I paced the room, the word ‘unfair’ pulsing in my mind.
Finally, I sat on the bed, drained and numb. I looked up at the window again, and as I did so my eyes fell on my books: my journal and Colm’s history.
I went to the shelf, took the history, lit a candle. In its flickering light, I leafed through the opening pages. I thought I knew these words by heart. I read, once again, the description of Lucian’s reign. In the third paragraph, a line caught my attention:
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.
I read quickly.
The northern people, beset by the same conditions unsuited to crop or cattle, began a series of skirmishes south, raiding for whatever food could be taken. As the days shortened the Emperor gathered his troops and rode north to meet the enemy, but three things were against him: the cold and snow of an early winter; the lack of adequate rations for his men, and the presence, in the enemy's bands, of men of the Empire, who had trained and fought with Lucian and knew his tactics. Among these men may have been the generals who had disagreed with Lucian, for he had commuted their sentences of death to banishment, outcast beyond the Empire’s borders, as was his right as Emperor.
I stopped reading. Was there a chance for me, here? I thought back to Callan, pronouncing summary justice on Blaine and Nevin, after their betrayal, the cold steel in his voice. He had shown his rogue commanders no pity, no generosity. Would he deal with me in the same way?
Part of me could not believe it. Blaine and Nevin had been complicit in a plan to kill the Emperor, an act of treason. I had broken a truce and a promise to bring word of a planned attack. Surely these would not have the same punishment? But I had violated an oath given in the Emperor’s name. Was that not also treason?
I slept a bit more, fitful dozing rather than deep sleep, but when the sun rose I was awake, a few decisions made. I would use Colm’s history to plan my defense, and I would tell my mother as little as possible. I would try to get her to leave, even if it meant telling her lies. The anger remained, coiled and cold inside me, and beyond that, deeper and even colder, the terror of what was to come, but I would ignore them both, for now. I dressed and went downstairs. The day was damp, a fine misty rain falling. I took a shawl from a peg in the kitchen
to cover my head and shoulders as I went out to the privy to empty the chamberpot, shivering slightly in the cool air.
Back inside I met my mother on the stairs. “Lena,” she said. “Why aren’t you in bed?”
“Because I am awake, and feeling fine,” I said. “I’m not even coughing.” Which was true, apart from a few shallow coughs when I first got out of bed. “And I’m hungry. All I had for supper was the broth.”
She regarded me, her hands moving to re-pin the knot of her hair. “All right,” she said. “But stay indoors, near the fire, and rest this afternoon. And tell me if you start to cough again.”
“I will,” I promised.
I washed and dressed and went back downstairs, to find Marta in the kitchen. “There’s tea,” she said, indicating the pot keeping warm on the stove. I poured myself a cup, sliced some bread, and sat at the table to eat.
“Marta,” I said, “did you know of my mother, before she came here to tend me?”
“Of course,” she said. “Gwen of Tirvan is an honoured name among midwives and healers, did you not know? We have exchanged letters over the years, sharing what we know of the uses of healing herbs, and other ways of treating illness and injury. Her knowledge of the uses of anash, for example, goes far beyond what many others know, myself included. We have had some long talks while she has been here.”
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