“And it had to be you,” Cillian said, “because you can pass as a northerner, and the route I told you about was east from the Raske Firth.”
“Aye,” Turlo said. “So I travelled up along the Durrains, and sometimes in them, with Galen, for part of the time, until I sent him back. In northern Linrathe I ran into Sorley. We soon sorted out we were on the same side, and he chose to come with me.” There was more to that, I thought, but it could be told later.
“And where the Tumë drains into the Firth av Raske, they met me and my ship,” Irmgard said. “Travellers from three lands, with one goal, meeting like that? The gods decreed it. And now we have Cillian na Perras, who can guide us? The gods, again. We will make this voyage safely.”
My mind flicked back over what Turlo had said, thinking. Pushed back from the coast. “Callan will retreat to the Eastern Fort, if all else is lost?” I asked.
“Yes,” Turlo said bleakly. He tried for a smile. “Quick, as always, Lena.” But I barely heard him. Pushed back from the coast.
“Turlo, what about the villages? What has happened to Tirvan?” A hand on my back. I ignored it. “Tell me!”
“Oh, lassie,” he said. “I do not know for certain, not for Tirvan. But I know what happened at Berge, and it was bad, lassie, very bad. I cannot give you hope.”
I moaned. Words and images pounded my brain: Ivor on me, thrusting his sex between my legs, and then Kira, and Lara. The sound of swords. The smell of blood. My mother. I should have been there. I wailed, curling in on myself, dropping onto the deck, rocking, keening my loss and anger and guilt. I should have been there.
There were voices, hands, but hands hurt. I pushed them away.
“No, Turlo,” Cillian said. “She has been injured. It needs to be me.”
He knelt beside me, picked me up, his arms around me wrapping me as tightly as a swaddled babe. He rocked me, whispered words I did not take in, and gradually I calmed. I still sobbed, but slowly the sobs subsided. Tears flowed, but the racking frenzy had ended. Cillian took my face in his hands to wipe the tears away, his hands as gentle as I had ever known them. “Oh, käresta,” he said. “I would have saved you this if I could. I am so sorry, Lena, so very sorry.”
I leaned against him, the whirling images dwindling. Anger began to rise. I could handle anger: it could be sheathed like a knife, and brought out again when it was needed. I took a deep breath, and another. “Cillian,” I whispered.
“I'm here.”
“I know. I need...to be angry right now, so I can deal with this. Not at you, never at you, even if it seems like it. Do you understand?”
Compassion, and something more, in his eyes. “Completely.” He kissed my forehead, resting his head against mine for a moment. “Do what you need to, käresta.”
I stood, looking at the others. Sorley gazed at Cillian, an odd look on his face. But it was Turlo and Irmgard whose attention I needed.
“Lady Irmgard,” I said, my throat sore from weeping. “This is your ship, so I need your permission for what I am about to ask.” She bowed her head in assent. I turned to Turlo. “General, I am out of training. Is there a sword I can use?”
“Aye,” Turlo said after a minute. “A sword will help. But not today, Lena.” He was holding a small flask in his hand. “Drink a bit of this,” he said. “You need it.”
I took the flask, tasting the fire of fuisce. I swallowed a mouthful, raw on my throat, and a second. It did help, in that I could contain and corral the anger raging in me. Turlo was looking over to where Sorley and Cillian stood talking, just too far away to hear the words over the sweep of the oars.
Sorley said something to Cillian, who looked away, and then back. Sorley reached out a hand to grasp Cillian's shoulder. Cillian spoke, looking grim. What has happened to the Ti'acha, if Linrathe is in the hands of the Marai? What is Sorley telling him? I had given no thought to this in my own overwhelming grief.
Cillian looked over to me. His face softened for the briefest second before his expression changed again, to mastered pain.
“You do care for him? This is not one-sided? For it is certain he cares for you.” Turlo said quietly. “I am sorry to pry, but I must know, because it will affect how you both react if we are in danger.”
I could access anger. Beyond that was despair. Was everything else I knew gone?
Cillian, still watching me, concern in his eyes. Not everything.
“I love him, Turlo.”
“I am glad, lassie,” he said. “A thing to be treasured in such a dark world.” He held out the flask. “Give your kärestan the fuisce. He needs it, too.”
“Kärestan?”
“I forget you do not know the language. Käresta for you, kärestan for him. 'Beloved', either way. Not a word any man of the north uses lightly, and,” he glanced at Cillian, “certainly not this one, from what I have been told.”
Beloved. Just an endearment. Another day, it would have made me smile.
At sunset the ship moored against the riverbank. Irmgard and her two women slept on board, it transpired, with guards from the crew. The rest of us slept, or stood watch, along the bank.
Irmgard sent Sorley to offer me a place with them. I thanked him, asked him to tell her no. I helped gather wood and prepare food, falling back with remarkable ease into the routine of making camp with competent, experienced soldiers.
I had taken Cillian the fuisce. Sorley had excused himself, leaving us alone. Cillian had uncapped the flask, taken the drink. “Thank the general for me,” he said. “I needed that.”
“Is it bad? In Linrathe, I mean?”
“Bad enough. Not as bad as your home may be,” he added quickly, “because Linrathe is nominally an ally. The Ti'acha are somewhat safe. Fritjof doesn't seem to understand what they are for, and someone quick-witted has led them to believe they are houses of holy men and women. He has some concept of that, so he is, for now, leaving the older inhabitants alone. But the younger men, from Ti'acha or torp, have been conscripted, and as for the girls...” He shook his head.
I frowned, confused. “Why is Lorcann permitting this?”
“No one has told you? Lorcann is a prisoner, or dead, probably the last. He went to Fritjof, and once the agreements were in place, and Marai men among the Linrathan, Fritjof betrayed him.”
I no longer cared about time or place. I put my arms around him. “This is not your fault,” I said fiercely.
“Is it not?” he replied, his voice as bleak as a winter moor. “I cannot find another way to see it.”
“Then it is mine, too.”
“No, Lena, it is not.”
“The Emperor made his choices, knowing this was a possible outcome.” I echoed Turlo's argument.
“He did. But I also saw this outcome, or most of it, and I chose to ignore it. What it would mean, for the people. I put other things first.”
“Your life, you mean.” I was growing angry.
“Yes. And what is one life, Lena, against all these others?”
“To me, everything. Or had you forgotten?”
“I had not, nor will I, ever.” He kissed my head. “Lena, käresta, leave me for a while. You have anger to sustain you; you are using it even now. I need to find something to do the same for me.”
I left him, going to help with what I could on the ship and then in making camp. I was chopping at a large piece of tree when Sorley came over to give me a hand.
“Whose neck are you imagining?” he asked. I glanced up. He wasn't smiling.
“Fritjof's,” I said briefly. “Who is it for you?”
“Lorcann.”
We worked in harmony and silence until the wood was in pieces. Carrying it over to the fire, I asked, “Sorley, how did you come to be here? There is more to the story than you told.”
“There is,” he agreed, stacking wood. “I was acting as a messenger, from Ti'ach to Ti'ach, as I said. They are centres, for information and supplies and sometimes shelter, if possible, for those of Linrathe w
ho stand against Fritjof. There are quite of few of us, quite a few.
“It was Perras who sent me north, to look for allies among Ǻsmund's men. I speak the language, and I know the land. I left from the Ti'ach na Iorlath, so I could use the mountains as protection. I must have been only a day or so ahead of the general, and one day I was caught by Galen, the general's scout.”
“My father,” I told him.
“I did not know that!”
“Why would you? I only met him last year, myself. The Empire is a different place than Linrathe, Sorley.”
He nodded his agreement. “Anyhow, he had me in bowshot range without me ever hearing him approach, and then disarmed and tied up in about a minute. It wasn't hard to convince him I wasn't Marai—most can't speak your language—but it took a bit more to persuade the general I was an ally. Your name helped. The rest you know.”
We carried more wood. “Do you know what happened to Jordis and Niav?” I finally asked.
“No. Only that they were taken away.”
“But Perras and Dagney are unharmed?”
“They were when I left. Perras had a bad cough and I know Dagney was worried for him, but the same could be said of many of the last winters.”
But those were winters with food and fuel and wine. With a huge army to feed, Fritjof would not leave much for the people. I didn't need to say this. Sorley came from a farming estate; he would know.
“Is there a leader, for the people of Linrathe who oppose Fritjof?”
“No one man. Natural leaders have emerged, but they rally around Ruar's name. Donnalch's son.”
“Is he still hostage?”
“He and Kebhan, yes, somewhere in the Empire.”
I remembered them, Ruar a boy of twelve or so; his cousin two or three years older, sharing the platform with us when the treaty proclamation had been made. Kebhan would be old enough to fight. Whose side would he be on, were he free to choose?
We finished our work. Sorley dusted his hands off on his breeches. “Can I ask you something now, Lena?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Then tell me, if you will. What have you done with Cillian?”
Gods, how I needed that laughter. “Oh, Sorley,” I said, wiping my eyes, “thank you for that.”
He was still chuckling, although the laughter hadn't stripped the sadness from his eyes. “You are most welcome. But there was a serious side to that question, in truth. Although I suppose it is none of my business.”
“You can probably guess most of it.”
“And the pieces I cannot are truly not for me, or for anyone else but the two of you. But I will say this, Lena: I would have wagered my entire inheritance against the possibility of what I saw him reveal earlier today. I wish—”
“Go on,” I said.
He smiled again. “I wish Perras and Dagney could know. Especially Dagney.”
“So do I. I know how much she cares for him.”
“We all do, you know,” he said gently. “Although he frequently makes it difficult. Most of the time, actually,” he amended with a quick smile.
“When it was just the two of us and the world was far away, it was remarkably easy, “ I said. “But you heard him, Sorley; he is blaming himself for Lorcann's deceit and Linrathe's loss.” I looked at the frank, concerned face of the man beside me. “I'm sorry, Sorley. I should not burden you with my private worries.”
“But no one else here has known Cillian as long as I have,” he said, “and whether he would acknowledge it or not I count him a friend. A dear friend. If there is anything I can do to help, tell me.”
After the meal, Sorley went on board the ship and came back with a small ladhar. He tuned it and began to play, a gentle tune at first, and then faster ones: drinking songs, I guessed. The oarsman sang lustily. But at some point he changed the tuning a bit, and what he played then were long, slow, sad ballads. He sang the words sometimes, and sometimes just let the music carry the feeling.
Cillian had not appeared. Turlo had come to sit beside me. There was grey in his beard and hair now, I noticed. He didn't ask where Cillian was, for which I was glad.
“The lad's a master on the instrument,” he said, “although it would be good to hear music from our land.”
I remembered a night at the Ti'ach. “He knows one song, at least the tune. I don't know what it's called. The one that begins 'The swallows gather, summer passes?’"
“I know it. Will you sing it with me if he plays it?”
I didn't want to. But it was Turlo asking. I said yes.
Turlo went to speak to Sorley. I watched him explain. Sorley nodded, adjusting the tuning again. He played the first few notes. Turlo came back and held out a hand to bring me to my feet.
I let Turlo's deep voice and the ladhar lead.
The swallows gather, summer passes,
The grapes hang dark and sweet;
On the third line, I joined in.
Heavy are the vines,
Heavy is my heart,
Endless is the road beneath my feet.
The sun is setting, the moon is rising,
The night is long and sweet;
I am gone at dawn,
I am gone with day,
Endless is the road beneath my feet.
The cold is deeper, the winters longer,
Summer is short but sweet,
I will remember,
I'll not forget you,
Endless is the road beneath my feet.
The last notes died away. Turlo put an arm around my shoulder. “A sad song, that,” he said. He looked up at the sky. “It's not Midsummer yet,” he said, “but I wish there were someone to play the Breccaith tonight, for all our losses.”
I found Cillian sitting by the riverbank. I slipped down beside him. “You missed the music,” I said.
“I heard it from here.” He put a hand on my shoulder briefly. “I have something to tell you, Lena. You are not going to like it.”
A tiny tremor of apprehension ran up my spine. “What?”
“Do you remember asking me about Darcail?”
“The hero? Yes.”
“You asked me if I believed we can redeem ourselves, as Darcail did?” He did not look at me, but at the dark ribbon of water in front of us.
“You said you didn't believe in redemption,” I reminded him.
“I said I did not know. I still do not. But regardless of what I said, all those days and weeks ago, I find there is only one possible response for me to what has happened in Linrathe.”
“What are you saying, Cillian?” The tremor had become a wave.
“I need to try to atone for this terrible thing I put in motion, Lena. I will see this ship safely to the sea, if I can. And then, käresta, exile or not, I must go home.”
The wave crested, froze, and shattered into a thousand shards of cold anger. “You think you can be a hero?” I derided, “are you a minging idiot? What do you think will happen, Cillian? Even if you could get back on your own, you'd be dead a day later.”
“A chance I will have to take, then.”
“It would be a waste,” I said, as coldly as I could.
“So was Alain's death,” he said bleakly. “We argued, you know,” he added. “I told him he was a fool, for fighting. As you are saying to me now. We parted badly.”
I scrambled to my feet. “And you going off to die will change that? Irmgard offered me a bed on the ship. I think I'll accept it, after all.”
He didn't reply. I stalked off, shaking. I couldn't go to the ship like this. I walked upriver, away from the fire and the snoring oarsmen. My legs felt suddenly weak. I dropped to the ground.
I sat a long time, looking out over the river, thinking of what had almost certainly happened at Tirvan, to my sister and my mother and the women I had grown up with, and what my own response had been. Then, memories. The night in Tirvan, when I let Maya go. Sending Tice back on patrol. An afternoon at the winter camp, when Casyn asked me if I would r
ide north to defend the Empire. An oath sworn. And a private vow made one morning.
I walked back along the riverbank. Cillian was stretched out on the grass, not sleeping, his eyes reflecting starlight as I went to him. I lay down beside him. “You are not going home,” I said. “Not until we have taught you some things, and not without me.”
Chapter Eight
He had simply held me as we both waited for the night to pass. Neither of us really slept: what my mind conjured at Tirvan, and likely his for Linrathe, did not allow it. Nor did we talk. Near dawn I slipped into a doze, but sounds of the ship being readied woke me soon after. I lay, weary and dispirited, not wanting to face the day. Cillian sat up.
I tried to smile for him. “Hello, my love.”
“Lena,” he said. He bent to kiss me, briefly. “I have not changed my mind.”
“Neither have I.” I made myself sit up. “We need to talk to Turlo, though. I asked him for a sword, yesterday; I am out of practice. We need one for you, now, to begin to learn.”
“You would make a swordsman of me now?” He was trying for lightness this morning, but it was taking effort.
“Learn to use a sword as quickly as you did the bow, and I'll worry less.”
“You will not,” he said, serious again. “There was truth in what you said to me last night. But how can I not go back?”
“I understand, Cillian,” I said. “I wasn't really angry, just afraid. But I have to go with you.”
On board, after we had eaten, Turlo called me over. He handed me a sword. “I thought this looked the right size.”
I tried a stroke or two, one guard. My muscles remembered, but the unfamiliar moves would take their toll.
“Thank you, Turlo. But now I have another request. Can you find one for Cillian, too?”
“Cillian? Why?”
“I want him to learn.”
Turlo gave me a long, assessing look. “Having a sword in your hand to channel your anger makes sense for you, Lena, as it would—it has—for me. It does not for him. What are you planning, lassie?”
Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy Page 78