“Yes. I am—all right. We are all right, together.” I felt myself blushing.
“You are brave, Lena,” he said, “and there are depths to Cillian I should not be surprised by, if blood tells.” My lip trembled at his words. “Lassie, what is it?”
“I am so afraid I will lose him, because he says he does not think he can kill, and I have, and will.” I bit back a sob.
“Which is how you lost your Maya,” Turlo said slowly. I nodded. “Lena, all I can tell you is what I tell any of my young soldiers, when one is a swordsman and the other on the horselines, or a medic, and they come to me with this dilemma. It is something that must be worked out between the two of you. But remember this: Cillian was ready to go back, untrained and alone, and he could not have imagined that doing such would not involve killing, at least in self-defence, and that is all you have ever done.”
Turlo's calm logic soothed me. “I should not have bothered you with this, and especially not right now, when you are tired.” I said.
“Of course you should. It is part of my job. But you do need to talk to Cillian, Lena, and,” he added, “you need to tell me the outcome, mind, once you are sure.”
“I will. I understand why you need to know.”
“Aye. Just as I did need to know what happened to you at the Kurzemë village,” he said gently. “It matters.”
I supposed it did. I nodded.
“This is new between you and your man, lassie?” he asked. An unexpected question.
“We have been lovers since midwinter. But truly loving each other? Since the spring.”
“I might wish we had not found you until Casil, then, to have given you more time. I am no expert on love, Lena, although I was true to my Arey for all her life. But you are barely together, and now you have had to hear hard, hard news, and been asked to make difficult decisions, all in a space of a day or two. It is a very great deal to ask of a love as new as yours.” He sighed. “But life is rarely how we would order it. Are you all right now, Lena?”
“I am. Thank you.”
He grinned, his eyes suddenly bright. “I hope you work it out, lassie, because when two of my young soldiers cannot reconcile, I can always reassign one to another company. What I could do with the two of you, on a small ship, I have no idea.”
I ate my share of venison before finding a flattish place on the grass to sleep. I'd been awake all night again. Sorley was also sleeping, so there was no one to practice swordplay with, and I didn't think I had the energy, anyhow.
When I woke, Cillian sat on the grass beside me. “How long have you been there?” I asked.
“An hour, maybe. I wasn't going to wake you.”
“You didn't.” I sat up, yawning. “Did you eat?” I took a second look at him. He had cut his beard off and shaved. His jaw was pale now, compared to the rest of his face. “When did you shave?”
“Before I came over to sit by you. Lena, did you read your pardon?”
“Yes, and the note Callan wrote, as well. Did you?”
“Yes.” He lay back, hands behind his head, staring at the sky. “I had a note from Callan too. That's why I went walking, to think about its implications.”
“I guessed that. Mine gave me pause, too.”
“Tell me?”
“It isn't much. Just that he asked the soldier's god for forgiveness if I would have preferred to stay exiled over being recalled to duty. I can't decide if he's sincere, or trying for sympathy. Playing games, again.” The bitterness that had crept into my voice surprised me.
“I believe it is sincere. The days for game-playing are past at home, Lena,” he said quietly.
“Why are you so sure?”
Cillian sat up again. “That will take some time to tell. Do you want to listen?”
“Of course.”
He took his note from Callan from a pocket. “Read this first, then I'll explain.”
Cillian, if this reaches you, you know the war goes badly. In rescinding your exile, I recall you to duty in the Empire, as your oath to me allows. You know more of the Marai than any other man I can trust. We need that knowledge, if we are to have any chance to prevail. I require you by my side, to advise me. Callan, P, I
“What do the letters after his name mean?” I had meant to ask Sorley earlier. “Mine was signed in the same way, but only with the 'I'.”
“The 'I' is the first letter of the Casilan word for Emperor. It is how all Emperors indicate their rank, back to ancient days.”
“And the 'P', on yours?”
“Casilan, again. An abbreviation for 'father'. Which is what gave me pause, as you put it. Because the order and size of the letters tells me—and he would have known I would understand—that he is writing first as my father, and only secondly as the Emperor.”
“He said he would be proud to acknowledge you,” I said slowly, remembering.
“And I him, it seems.” A wry smile, quickly gone. “Lena, what this note raised for me are questions of loyalty, and where my allegiances lie. About private vows and public ones. But for you to understand those questions at all—and I am not sure I do, completely—I must tell you about the last night at the White Fort.”
“Tell me, then.” I shifted, to sit cross-legged, facing him.
“You and Casyn stayed behind in the hall while I went with Callan, remember?”
I thought back. “Yes. I had a note to write, to Turlo.”
“The Emperor took me to a smaller room where a fire burned, chairs near it. There was more wine, and food, and maps and scrolls spread out on tables. It must have been his private chamber. He said ‘Cillian, this will be the only hour I am likely to ever have with my son. Will you do me the honour of speaking with me, for that time?’
“It would have been discourteous of me to refuse; he had, after all, just saved our lives. So I sat, and accepted wine, and at first we talked of the Marai, and how he might induce Lorcann to remain loyal, and then a bit more widely, about the Eastern Empire. I could do this; it was little different than a hundred other conversations I have had, over wine, late at night, with an Eirën or a Harr or even with the Teannasach. Then Casyn came in—you had gone to bed?”
“Yes. Birel came for me.”
“With Casyn there, we spoke a bit about the trial itself, but in a detached manner, another discussion of tactics. But by now it was very late, I was very tired, and I had had quite a bit of wine. All things I had been well-taught to avoid in any sort of diplomatic talks—and that was how I was thinking of the conversation. Casyn made some jest at the expense of Callan and I reacted, openly, without restraint, I suppose you could say. I saw my father go rigid, and I am not exaggerating, Lena. It took Callan a minute to speak, but when he did, he told me, ‘You have your mother's smile'. He said it was the first thing he noticed about her, smiling up at him at the gate, asking for permission to bring cheese in to trade.
“I couldn't frame a response to that—it was so unexpected—so I said nothing. The room was very quiet for a while. Callan hadn't taken his eyes off me. Finally, he spoke again. ‘I look at you, Cillian,’ he said, ‘and I see the two people I loved most in this life: Wenna, and my dead twin. I wish you could have known Colm; you would have had so much in common.’
"'I have read his letters to Perras of the Ti'ach,” I remember saying. 'A fine mind.’
“‘And so much more', he answered. ‘I would wish that he had had your choices, Cillian, for the price he paid to be a man of scholarship rather than of arms was too high, far too high. But had you known him, you might have learned something else from him.’
“I remember Casyn said something to him, very quietly. Callan stood then; I could see the agitation in him. I started to stand too, but Casyn indicated for me to stay seated, so I did. ‘I will speak,’ Callan said. ‘Surely a man has the right to give his only son advice once in his life? I had less than a day to gather intelligence about this man who might be my son, and then only these last few hours to judge for myself. There was a common thread i
n what I was told: a brilliant, incisive, analytic mind, but a cold, cynical, isolated man.’”
“And you said?” I could imagine Callan saying this, in his calm manner.
"'A fair description', I believe.”
“No.” I shook my head decisively. “Even then, Cillian, I would not have agreed. Not quite.”
“That was what Casyn said.”
“I'm not surprised. Go on?”
“Callan said, ‘I agree with my brother, I think. But to me that description is far too close to the heart of you, and that is why I wish you could have known Colm. I cannot know what your losses have been, and your pain, although I wish I might, but they cannot be what Colm lost: his manhood, any chance of physical love, any chance of children. But he was never bitter, never angry, and he cared about people, all sorts of people, as Lena may have told you. I do not know what you will find in exile, Cillian, but if I could have one wish for the life that I have saved this night, it would be this: that you find your humanity. For your beautiful, laughing, mother's sake, and for your own. Let men see and know a man who lives as he was meant to live.’”
Cillian's voice had changed, telling me these last words. Earlier, it had been the precise recitation from a memory trained to recall. These words he would have remembered, training or not, I thought.
He exhaled, a long sigh. “What does one say to that? Perras and Dagney had said similar things to me in the past, and even Alain, once, but,” he paused, “but somehow, it did matter that the man now speaking the advice was my father, and was both invoking my mother's name, and quoting Catilius. And that he had saved my life.”
“What did you say?” I asked softly.
“Nothing. Those were almost the last words my father said to me. He held out his arms; I allowed the embrace. I hope I returned it. And then he left the room.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “And that brings me to my dilemma. Because I made a promise to myself, in my mother's name and his, that I would do this; I would get past the justifications I had made to myself for being that cold, cynical, isolated man I was reputed to be, and find, as he asked, my humanity. Because of course,” he added, “I should be able to do that, with my—what was it?—brilliant, incisive, analytic mind.”
“I would say you have succeeded.” He would always mock, I thought, although now it was usually turned on himself.
“Perhaps. A bit. Enough to see something I may not have before.”
“Which is?”
“I owe my father a debt, I believe. I owe my Emperor allegiance, as uncomfortable a concept that is to me. The man has asked me, in both guises, to come to his side, which is why I believe the need is real. But by accepting the pardon, and therefore acknowledging that I will do as he has both asked and commanded, I am breaking, I think, my second private vow.”
“You think you are breaking it?”
“It concerns you, as you may have guessed, käresta. Will you tell me something? Would you have accepted the pardon, with all its implications, if I had turned it down? Would you still prefer exile, Lena?”
After sleep the answer was clear. “I wish with all my heart that we were still wandering free and unencumbered on the grasslands, or camping by the lake,” I said. “But Casyn told me once that how we respond to the circumstances of our lives is what shapes us, as men and women, and I must respond to what has happened at home. The only meaningful way to do so is to accept the pardon and become a soldier again.” I paused, ordering my thoughts. “But I did not want to. Cillian, I lay awake all last night struggling with the same dilemma. In honouring my oath to the Empire, I too may break a private vow, one I made to you.”
He reached out a hand to me. I took it, entangling just his fingertips in mine. “Tell me one thing,” he asked. “Can your vow be kept only if we are together, as mine requires?” I nodded, not trusting words. He hesitated, his voice diffident, suddenly. “I will tell you, if you want.”
“No,” I answered. “Don't tell me. I'd rather not, either—unless you truly want to know?”
“No. Not now. If there is a future past war and grief, when circumstances are less likely to force us to break them, perhaps then.”
“If there is a future past war and grief, Cillian, and we are alive to see it, I will speak any vow you wish, private or public,” I said fiercely. His fingers tightened on mine, but when he spoke, it was lightly.
“Be careful of what you offer, Lena; I may hold you to that, someday.”
“You might not want to, Cillian. War asks terrible things of us, and you may not—want me, afterwards.” I had not planned for this conversation, now, but here it was.
“Because you have killed, you mean?” He was too perceptive, sometimes.
“I loved Maya, Cillian, and she left me because she would not kill, or even fight, and I would. I know the idea revolts you, too, and there is already blood on my hands, and there will be more. If that makes me repulsive to you as well...” I trailed off. What would I do, if it did?
“It will not,” he said firmly. “This was one of the things on my mind; I will not pretend otherwise. It would be different if you killed without compunction, or the gods forbid, for pleasure, but I saw what the act does to you, yesterday, and that death was barely your doing. And—” He looked away, and then back. “I should not have said I did not think I could kill. I would have killed Ivor, had I known, and had I had the chance. I am clear on that, in my own mind.”
“His is the one killing that does not haunt me,” I admitted.
“Nor should it.” He grinned suddenly, shifting the mood. “I suppose I had better learn how to use a sword, had I not?”
I laughed. “Yes. But learn from Turlo; I am not capable of the finer points of swordplay. I spent more time falling over it than using it, at the beginning. You need a more competent instructor.”
“Something you are not good at?” he replied. “I confess myself surprised.”
Chapter Ten
I caught up to Turlo as we boarded the ship. “All is well,” I told him. He acknowledged my words with a quick smile.
“I am glad, lassie. Cillian,” he called, “come over here. Time for you to start learning the sword.”
There was nothing for me to do. Geiri had not let any of us take over the injured oarsman's place. “He says we are all too weak, and we will throw off the rhythm,” Sorley explained. “Either he will row, or we will go more slowly, with ten pairs.” My short sleep hadn't really revived me: fatigue felt as if it had seeped into my bones. What I really wanted was to be alone, to sort through the last few days, to give way to the terrible grief that lay heavily inside me. But there was no chance of that.
I listened to Turlo, instructing Cillian on grip and stance. My thoughts drifted back to Casyn, teaching the same things to us on the field at Tirvan. But I couldn't think about Tirvan, not here, not now. I swallowed, and focused again on Turlo's words: it wouldn't hurt me to hear this again, I thought.
Sorley sat down beside me. “Did you want to practice, when we stop?”
“Yes, of course. Did you still want to build a target?”
I considered. “Yes. We should practice with the new bows, so we will need one.”
“We'll need to cut withies on the bank, then, to weave a frame. I can't think of anything else to use.”
We watched again in silence. The space at the stern was too small for real practice, but Turlo was having Cillian try the positions of the basic guards. I tried to watch with the dispassionate eye I had used to judge my cohort's knife skills. Cillian had been agile enough in the mountains, and he had an inherent grace that had served him in learning the bow, but nothing that he had done in the past had prepared him for the sword. I had had strong arms and shoulders, from fishing, and I had struggled. As he was doing, now. I wondered how he would react when the oarsmen, inevitably, laughed.
I glanced at Sorley, and immediately away again. I wanted to say something to him, to try to ease what I saw on his face, but th
is was not for me to acknowledge. “Let's look at those hunting bows,” I suggested.
His face cleared. “A good idea,” he said. We found the bows, piled against the side. I didn't recognize the wood of the staves, striped with varying hues of golden-brown. They were beautiful, and well-made, but nicked and rough to the touch in places. Sorely went off, returning with a pot of grease and some pieces of woollen cloth. We began to rub the grease into the wood, feeling it become smooth under our fingers.
I was testing the flexibility of one bow, and its ease of stringing, when Turlo and Cillian joined us. Cillian, flushed with exertion, was breathing quickly. I grinned at him. “You're going to be sore,” I warned.
“So Turlo tells me,” he said wryly.
“One those bows is yours, lassie,” Turlo said. “Choose for yourself, and the arrows you need.”
I continued evaluating the bows for size and suppleness, finally choosing one with a darker streak through the wood: I liked it, and it was quickly recognizable. Sorting through the arrows, I took six, but in my judgement most needed fletching again: the feathers were ragged. Easy enough to find new ones, on a river where ducks were plentiful. I would see what I could shoot at the next mooring.
“Who are the other bows meant for?” I asked.
“Whoever can shoot them; myself and Sorley, if needed.” Turlo replied.
“Cillian, too,” I added.
He turned to Cillian. “You can shoot?”
“A bit.”
“A bit?” I said. “Turlo, he shot a running bear in the eye. He is very good.”
“That,” Turlo said, “does not surprise me in the slightest.”
“May I teach Irmgard and her women?” I asked. “They are competent with the small bow, so it shouldn't take much teaching.”
“Why not? If the women agree.”
We moored again in mid-afternoon and disembarked: Cillian and Turlo to work on some basic strokes, and I to shoot ducks. I wanted the longest, strongest flight feathers, and from a grown bird I could hope for four or five per wing. Three ducks would give me the feathers I needed.
Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy Page 81