Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy

by Marian L Thorpe

  “Oh, Cillian, how terrible.”

  “I don't remember much of it. I was very ill, close to death, I think, for weeks afterwards.”

  “Is that why you went to the Ti'ach so young?”

  “I was sent for my safety. And for the safety of my grandparents; I learned much later that threats had been made against them too, if they did not rid themselves of me.” I thought I heard, behind his calm voice, an undercurrent of pain.

  “I'm sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to bring back bad memories.”

  “The memories are part of who I am, and you should know that,” he replied. “And perhaps this is a good time for me to tell them to you, because right now, I may be happier than I have ever been.”

  “Dagney would be pleased,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “She worried about you, she told me. She said she loved you.”

  “I did not know that she thought of me in that way.” He considered. “Are you sure those were her words?”

  “Completely.”

  “I wish I had realized. Another regret.”

  “All I am doing is making you sad again,” I said, irritated with myself.

  “Not sad. Meditative, perhaps.” He shifted position to lie on his back. I moved so my head rested on his chest. He ran a gentle finger along the scar on my breast. “I am not the only one with scars,” he observed.

  My stomach growled. “Neither of us remembered to soak grain last night, did we?” I asked.

  “No. We had other things to think about,” he said.

  “I can make oatcakes when I get up.” I knew he wouldn't complain; accepting what came was part of the philosophy he tried to adhere to, as far as I understood. “Cillian? You spoke once of writings by an Emperor, a philosophy you try to live by, you said?”

  “Catilius. He followed a way of life, of thought, that appeals to me: simply put, that nothing in life is either good or bad in itself. It is our reactions that make events appear positive or negative.”

  “So poor food isn't itself cause for complaint? You school yourself to accept it?”

  “Perhaps it is a bit more complex than that, but yes.”

  It reminded me of something. “We cannot shape the circumstances to fit our lives, only our lives to fit the circumstances. What defines us, as men and women, is how we respond to those circumstances.”

  “Very elegantly put. Who said that?”

  “Casyn.”

  “I knew they, or at least Callan, knew of Catilius's writings. Perhaps they are also followers of his thought.”

  “Perhaps. I wouldn't know.”

  We lay silent, his hand stroking my hair. When had I last lain like this, warm and content the morning after love, talking? When had he?

  “Can I ask you something? But don't tell me, if you don't want to,” I said. “How long had it been, for you?”

  “Six years, and a bit more.”

  “A long time to sleep alone, and wake alone, and not be held,” I murmured.

  “I have never known anything else, until this year.”

  “No? Never what we are doing now, just lying together, talking, just—appreciating each other?”

  “No. Just brief encounters, and a solitary bed afterwards, and nothing more than a glance or a hidden smile, the next day. You have been a revelation to me in many ways, leannan.”

  Leannan. Dear one, I thought it meant. Huld had called me that too, a casual word of affection, from her. But from Cillian, who did nothing casually, what did it mean? I listened to its nuances in my mind, turning it around. He was dear to me, and more so now. And I too was happier than I could remember being in a very long time.

  But still I felt a tinge of unease. Had Cillian truly heard me when I had said all I could offer him was comfort and pleasure, and affection? I thought of the vulnerability I had seen in him yesterday. I could hurt him easily, without intent, and I did not want that to happen.

  I remembered the tears on his cheeks. What we had shared last night had been a communion beyond my experience. And possibly his, too? Right now, I may be happier than I have ever been, he had said. This was not the time to raise doubts, to fracture his fragile happiness.

  There wasn't much activity around the village, people sleeping late, many feeling the effects of too much beer. In the early afternoon we were playing xache idly by the fire. A whining at the door interrupted us. I opened it to find Audo's brindle bitch, injured and bleeding badly, looking up at me.

  “Something's happened to Audo,” I called to Cillian. We pulled on outdoor clothes and lϋmike, grabbing bows and quivers.

  “I'll go for Eryl,” Cillian said.

  The dog floundered in the snow, one leg useless. “Stay,” I told it. I could follow its trail, blood marking its route. I moved as quickly as I could, cursing the snow and my own clumsiness on lϋmike. The dog struggled behind me. The trail went east: Audo's lower snare line. A small blessing, possibly.

  Cillian and Eryl caught up with me before too long. I surrendered the lead to Eryl, knowing his tracking skills were unsurpassed. The dog, far behind us, began to bark, and from ahead I heard an answering whine.

  Audo lay by one of his snares, blood staining the snow. One dog was dead beside him, its throat torn; the other, still alive, but unable to rise, had crawled to him. It lay over his chest. Cillian bent to move it away as I dropped to my knees beside Audo. I felt for a heartbeat: faint, irregular, but there. “He's alive,” I said. Most of the blood reddened the snow by one leg. His boot was missing and the bare foot was turning blue. I cut the leg of his breeches away. The leg was a mass of torn flesh, but it was not pumping blood.

  “Wolf,” Eryl told us, returning from a short distance away. “Only one. The dogs must have fought it off.” He had the missing boot in his hand. I eased it back over Audo's foot; it was damaged, but better than nothing.

  “How do we get him back to the village?” I asked. I checked the rest of his body; bites on one arm and both hands as well.

  “I'll go,” Eryl said. “We'll need a sled. Be vigilant: the wolf may not be far away.” He began to run back towards the village.

  “Give me your secca,” Cillian said, sounding grim. “This dog is dying.” I gave it to him, looking away as he held its head back to cut its throat. He dragged its body, and the other one, away from where I crouched by Audo.

  “I should have been with him,” I said.

  “Lena, he has been doing this for years without you,” Cillian reminded me. “You cannot take responsibility for this.” He held his bow, an arrow nocked, watching the hillside.

  “I suppose,” I said. I didn't go out with Audo every day. But usually it was because I had other responsibilities, not because I had chosen to spend a lazy, relaxed day with Cillian. We waited. I stayed by Audo. The wounded dog, arriving, curled up beside him. This dog would live, I thought. How would Audo stay warm at night without the other two? If he survived.

  I could see Eryl returning, pulling a fur-heaped sled, Fél following him. Carefully, Eryl and Fél lifted Audo onto the sled, covering him with furs. Audo moaned briefly, lapsing back into unconsciousness. “Put the dog on too,” Eryl directed.

  At Audo's hut, Kaisa had the fire burning high and water heating. The men carried him to his bed, nothing more than a pallet covered by furs. We undressed him to bathe and bind the wounds.

  Part way through, Audo woke, screaming, fighting our hands. “Keep him as calm as possible,” I said. “I'll get the poppy syrup.” Not bothering with lϋmike, I ran back to our hut to find my bag of remedies. Anash, too, I thought, against fever.

  Back at Audo's hut, we held his jaw open. I poured a small amount of poppy into his mouth, massaging his throat to encourage him to swallow. We covered him with furs. When he had calmed, drifting back into sleep or unconsciousness, Kaisa finished bathing the wounds. “There is no more we can do,” she said. “I will sit with him. Lena, you are covered in blood. Go and clean yourself and your clothes.”

 
; I looked down. She was right; blood stained my coat and leggings. “Your face, too,” Cillian told me. I scooped up some water and washed my face, tasting the blood on my lips. Bile rose in my throat. I pushed down the nausea.

  “It is too late tonight to begin a hunt for the animal,” Eryl said. “Tomorrow, first light. Do you want to come, Cillian?”

  “No. I will slow you down. I will guard the sheep.”

  “Or go with Lena to guard the women; they will need to go out for firewood tomorrow. Audo will need a fire by day as well as night for some time. I'd prefer two guards, with a wolf around that has tasted a person. Lena, you know his snares well: they will need to be taken down. Can you do that?”

  “Eryl, if his snares are taken down, will you feed his dog?” The dogs, like Audo, ate primarily whatever he caught. The snares had helped feed us, too. “Or should I just keep the snare line going?”

  He considered. “You can if you want. But again, not by yourself, unless we kill this wolf.”

  I glanced at Cillian. He shrugged. “Your decision, Lena. I will come with you, if you decide to do it.”

  “Then I will.”

  “Go,” Kaisa said again. “Eryl, you will arrange with Grêt and Ludis for women to care for him, and for food and firewood?”

  Cillian left with me. My stomach was still unsteady. At our hut, I stripped off the bloody clothes. “I'll clean them,” Cillian said. “You sit. You are white, Lena.”

  “I hate the sight of human blood,” I said. I took dried ginger root from my remedy bag, dropping it into a mug. Cillian built up the fire. As soon as the water had heated, I poured some on the ginger root. Even the smell helped the nausea. I sipped it slowly, feeling my stomach slowly settle.

  But in the night, I woke, bile rising in my throat from a confused dream of blood and knives. I ran outside to vomit, heedless of what little I wore. I knelt in the snow, waiting to be sure the spasms were over. I felt a fur being draped over my shoulders, and a hand on my back. “Are you all right?” Cillian asked.

  I nodded. “I think so.”

  “Should I make you tea, with the ginger root?”

  “Would you? I'll come in, in a little while.” By the time I did, the tea was waiting for me, and dry clothes, warming by the fire. I changed, and wrapped the fur around me again.

  “What brought this on, Lena?” Cillian asked.

  “A dream, of blood and killing,” I answered. “It happens, occasionally.” I drank a little of the tea. “I will tell you, but you might not like what you hear.”

  “I have watched you kill a man,” he reminded me.

  “True. That killing bothers me less. But when Leste invaded, my cohort—our job was to find the men who didn't surrender, who were hiding. We were trained to move silently, to use our knives, to be assassins. The first man I killed died badly. He was no more than a boy, and he tried to fight back, and I stabbed him, in the lungs, I realize now. He was choking on his own blood.” I couldn't keep the tears back. “I couldn't stand seeing him like that, so I cut his throat. Like he was an animal, like you did Audo's dog today.”

  “Dear gods,” Cillian said, moving to wrap his arms around me. “You should have told me this earlier.”

  “I know,” I sobbed. “Before we became lovers. So you knew who I was. I'm sorry, Cillian.”

  “That is not what I meant,” he said. “What you did was a mercy. I only meant I wished I had known, so I might have killed the dog out of your sight, and perhaps saved you this, tonight.”

  “Perhaps.” I rested in his arms. “I think it might have been Audo's blood on my face, too. Tasting it.”

  “I can see that. Finish your tea, Lena, and then back to bed, before you get cold.” Under the furs, I nestled against him, slowly getting warm, drifting into a dreamless, safe sleep.

  †††††

  As the days lengthened, the cold deepened. The snow stopped falling, clouds giving way to brilliant blue skies. We began to hear the wolves at night. The hunters reported finding the remnants of kills in the valley: a pack of ten or so, Eryl thought, from the tracks, not the pair of young ones.

  Our routines did not alter, but gradually I noticed a change in Cillian. Aivar died at the dark of the moon, coughing blood, and after the ceremony for his death Cillian became quiet. I expected him to recover after a day or two, but he did not, although it took me a while to notice that he hadn't.

  In these cold months, it was the practice of the Kurzemë to save fuel by families moving into one hut, crowded but warm. Firewood was hard to gather in the deep snow, and with Audo needing more than usual, the supplies dwindled. Fél and Kaisa invited us to share their hut, something I was reluctant to do. We compromised: during the day we ate with them and shared their fire, Eryl often joining us. Cillian and Fél were teaching him the stories. Only at night did we return to our own hut, accepting the good-natured teasing we received for this.

  We had little private time together beyond the nighttime. Out on the snare lines, he was frequently silent; pensive, I thought, but I put it down to a need to counter the lack of solitude and quiet. The crowded conditions were beginning to frustrate me, and I was not unhappy he did not want to talk while we were out.

  It was Kaisa, at an evening meal, who brought my attention to how little Cillian was eating. “One bowl of soup will not give you energy enough for the hunt,” she scolded him.

  “Kaisa, I am just not hungry tonight,” he replied. “Please do not worry.” But later, she took me aside.

  “Is Cillian sick?” she asked bluntly. “He is not eating; have you not noticed?” I hadn't. I would pay attention, I assured her. Under the furs that night, I ran my hands along his ribs.

  “Cillian, you are losing weight,” I said. “Kaisa says you are not eating, and she is right, isn't she? And we haven't made love for days. What's wrong?”

  He didn't answer immediately. I waited.

  “I am just winter-weary, as it is called in Sorham,” he said eventually. “Tired of confinement, I suppose.”

  “Is this worse than Sorham?” I asked.

  “It shouldn't be,” he said. He ran a hand down my arm, lightly. “In one way it is better than any winter of my life, leannan,” he murmured. “But I admit to being discontent, Lena, without really knowing why.”

  “Oh, love, maybe you just need some time alone,” I said. Love? Where had that come from? It was what I had called Maya. If he noticed the endearment, he didn't react. “I can ask Fél to accompany me to the snares.” With the wolves still about, Eryl would not allow me to go alone.

  “It might help,” he admitted. “Solitude is something I am used to.”

  “And you have had almost none, for the last ten months,” I pointed out. “Let me talk to Fél.”

  Fél was happy to accompany me. “Cillian misses Aivar,” he told me, as we checked the snares. “They talked of things beyond me, the sort of thing officers learn about in the Empire. Philosophy, and such.”

  But even with Fél now helping with the snare line every few days, Cillian did not seem happier to me. Time alone was only making him more withdrawn. “I am beginning to worry about you,” I told him, a couple of weeks later, as we returned from a nearly-silent check of the snares.

  His eyes, shadowed, told me nothing. “Forgive me, Lena,” he said quietly. “There is much on my mind.”

  “Would it help to tell me?”

  “It is difficult to explain. I have spoken before of Catilius, and his Contemplations. You remember?’

  “Yes.”

  “I have used his writings, which are about his own maturation into a philosophy to govern his life, as a guide to my own. I began this some years ago, and I believed that in exile I would find much in his thought to sustain me. But it is not the case.”

  “Why not? Or maybe I mean how is it not the case?”

  “Ah,” he said, sounding frustrated, “for several reasons. One is that I do not have his writings and so cannot see the thoughts in context, following t
heir development. I am finding one or two contradictory, as I remember them, and that is part of it. But the fault is in me, I think, Lena. There is work to do here I should be glad to take on. Eryl wants me to develop a written Kurzemë language. It is an honourable and important task. But I do not want to do it.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  “Things I cannot have. There is no use dwelling on them, Lena. I am angry with myself, for not being satisfied with what I have: my life, your companionship, friends here. You will have to be patient with me once again, I am afraid.”

  “I can be patient,” I said, “as long as I know you are well.”

  How had he gone from being so happy just before midwinter, to these depths of discontent? All that had changed was that we had become lovers. Did the key to his unhappiness lie in that? I couldn't see how.

  †††††

  The weather had warmed just enough to allow us to move back to our own hut. I thought the relief from the demands of other people might improve Cillian's frame of mind, but I saw little evidence of it. My patience was beginning to fray as much through worry as frustration.

  Perhaps, I thought, I am simply too pragmatic. Life had demands, and they needed to be met. I didn't necessarily like them, but I could adapt. I wasn't exactly leading the life I would prefer, either, but I hadn't given in to melancholy.

  Eryl had come looking for Cillian earlier. They had gone off together, and I had gone to visit Audo. His leg had healed, mostly, although the muscles had shrunk and scarred and he could still barely walk. But he had been happy: the brindle bitch was clearly pregnant and there would be puppies soon. He would keep two, he told me. The rest, I knew, would be killed, unless someone wanted one.

  Ludis, I mused, walking back to our hut, seemed content to leave almost all the leadership of the village to Eryl. After Aivar's death, Ludis had shrunk, withdrawn into himself. Grêt tried to speak for him, but it was clear the men saw Eryl as his successor.