It was quick work. The common green-headed duck of the river seemed to have little fear of people, and they tended to keep close to the sides. I left the carcasses and my bird bow on board—I could work on fletching as we travelled—and went to see if Sorley needed help.
He wasn't gathering withies, as I had assumed, but watching Turlo and Cillian, along with some of the oarsmen. Our swords lay on the grass beside him. Turlo was demonstrating a strike, transitioning with it from Eagle's Guard into the Horn Guard. He moved smoothly, economically, but he lacked the pure grace of Casyn with a sword. I wondered if Callan handled a sword like his brother. I thought it likely he did.
“Our turn,” Sorley said. I picked up my sword and followed him out onto the field. I took a quick look at the sky, at the sun's position and the lack of clouds. Then I let my mind go back to Tirvan, and the feelings I had been suppressing.
“Call the guards and strikes,” Turlo told us. I positioned my sword in Snake's Guard, called it, and began to swing.
I saw Sorley's eyes widen slightly after the first few moves. His jaw tightened, and his moves became more precise, focused. We circled and swung, thrust and parried, calling the positions. I hit hard, channelling my grief and anger, and he took the hits and gave them back. He understood, I think, and we became opponents each could rage against.
I couldn't keep it up, though; I simply wasn't strong enough, and the intensity with which I was handling the sword was wearing me out. Belatedly I realized this wasn't what Turlo had wanted, nor what Cillian needed to see. I signalled to Sorley and dropped my sword point to the ground.
“Well, lassie, at least you called the moves,” Turlo said drily.
“I'm sorry, Turlo,” I panted. “That wasn't much of a training demonstration.”
“No,” he agreed. “But you needed it. Both of you,” he added, with a glance at Sorley. He turned to Cillian. “What did you see?”
“Near the end I could guess what the next guard would be, and the next strike, from the position of the blade. But only for the last three or four.”
“That's more than most can see at their first lesson. Good. Maybe next time they'll take it a bit slower to let you see more.” He turned to me. “Best swordplay I've ever seen from you, Guard.”
I was still out of breath. I shook my head. “Wore me out too quickly.”
“Aye, well, you're out of practice,” Turlo said. “It'll come. Fight with your head and not your heart next time.”
He was right, of course; the rage itself was exhausting. I took a few deep breaths, pushing the anger back down. “Sorry, Sorley, I should have warned you.”
“I worked it out,” he answered. He grinned. “I haven't had a fight like that since my brother took me on after I claimed the best pup from our bitch's litter.”
“All brawn and no grace?” Turlo asked.
“I never said I could dance with a sword,” I answered.
“And I,” Cillian said, “am a far better dancer than a swordsman.”
“Do not let the Marai men hear that,” Turlo warned, grinning. “You're going to be the butt of their jokes for a while, mo charaidh, as it is.”
“I expected that,” Cillian said ruefully.
“Aye, well, don't react, play along with them if you can. A wager of some sort would help, if you've got anything to wager.”
We had coins, a purseful each, given to us at the White Fort, before we left. Some complicated payment, we were told, but I thought the money more likely a gift, from the Emperor, or Casyn. But it was Sorley who provided the solution.
“These are Marai men, Cillian,” he said. “Bet them a story told at the fires at night. They'll be happy with that, and if they start to see you as a scáeli,” he shrugged, “well, they'll stop expecting as much from you, and not give you such a hard time.”
“A fine idea,” Turlo said.
“Yes, it is,” Cillian answered. “Although I am hurt by Sorley's lack of confidence in my ability to learn the sword. Will you play your ladhar for me, mo charaidh, while I tell of sea monsters and giants?”
“You know I will,” Sorley answered. “And remind you of the words if need be. Danta were never your strong point, now were they?”
“Undermining me at every turn,” Cillian complained. Suddenly, a wave of happiness washed through me; despite everything, for this moment, being here with these three men was a source of joy.
We walked back to the ship. One of the oarsman shouted something at Cillian; he called back in Marái'sta, the conversation continuing as we boarded. Another man made a comment and I saw Cillian tense just a little, his fingers flexing, before he answered, apparently cheerfully. Beside me, Sorley inhaled. I looked at him questioningly. “That last was ribald,” he said. “You don't want to know.”
Geiri snapped a command and we began to move. I had arrows to fletch. Sorley went to the pile of withies, sorting through them. Cillian stayed with Turlo, talking.
By the time we moored again, I had fletched my arrows. “Help me build a frame?” Sorley asked, so while Turlo took Cillian off for another sword practice with a group of oarsmen as spectators, I helped him lash withies together to make a butt, stuffing it with reeds.
I retrieved the new bow and the arrows. Pacing off a reasonable distance, I nocked the arrow, aimed, and let it fly. The draw on the bow was a little lighter than I had expected for the weight of the arrow and the first shot dropped too soon. I made the necessary adjustments and shot again, hitting the target close enough to the centre to be pleased.
“Sorley?” I offered, once I'd shot all six arrows. I'd brought back a bow for him, too, but my arrows were the only ones properly fletched right now. “The draw's a bit light,” I told him as he moved into position. Like mine, his first shot wavered, but the others were on target.
Another shouted conversation in Marái'sta told me sword practice was over. “I better tune the ladhar,” Sorley said. “We'll be using it tonight.” I wondered what the wager had been.
Cillian came over to us, along with a few of the oarsmen, clearly wanting to see this lesson too. “Let me shoot again,” I said to Sorley, and without looking at the Marai I shot three arrows, quickly, into the target. Then I handed the bow to Cillian. “The arrows are bit heavier than I would judge the bow's force is meant for,” I told him. “So you will have to draw it back a bit further than you think, and aim a little high, so the arrow can fall.” He nodded, stepping into position. His first shot was respectable, the arrow falling more than it should but still striking the edge of the target. “Better than my first shot,” I told him. “Can you adjust for that?”
“I think so.” He shot again, this time hitting the middle third of the target. The next shot was even better.
“Well done,” I said. I remembered something from our training at Tirvan. “A contest?” I suggested. “Two arrows each, nearest to the centre?”
“What are we competing for?” Cillian asked. “I have already lost one wager.”
“Just—glory,” I said.
The oarsmen caught on quickly, and to their shouts we shot our six arrows. Sorley won, but none of the shots were terrible. A call from the Marai made Sorley and Cillian exchange a glance. “They want us to do it again,” Sorley said. “There are bets laid.”
Another round, and this time my arrow lay closest to the centre, with one of Cillian's a hairsbreadth's away. The oarsmen cheered. “One more time?” I guessed. “Let's back up, just a bit.”
I shot first, as the winner of the last round, then Sorley, then Cillian. My first shot was on target but not close to the centre, Sorley's a bit better. Cillian's was wide, hitting the butt, but the height was good. “Watch your stance,” I told him as we prepared to shoot again. My second shot hit centred but too high. Sorley's came in beside mine, and Cillian's just below us both. Not the dead centre, but good enough. I grinned in delight, hearing groans from the losing oarsmen.
“You see the flight of the arrow in your head, and the adjustments are like strings
between your mind and your hands, am I right?” Turlo's wry question startled me. I hadn't realized he was watching.
Cillian closed his eyes, thinking. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “That's right.”
“Your father's words.” Turlo snorted. “Only man I know who can best me with a bow.”
“Not the sword?” I asked.
“No. Casyn is the swordsman. Callan is good with it, but he's a master with the bow. Well, we'll make you competent with a sword, Cillian, but there's no point in wasting talent. Choose one of the bows as your own.”
As promised, Cillian told a long story in Marái'sta at the fire that night. Sorley played his ladhar, sometimes singing a few verses that I assumed belonged in the story. I watched Cillian for a while, seeing yet another facet to him. He'd done this with the Kurzemë, too, but I had not been welcomed to watch, there.
He has used this exile, I thought, not just lived through it. He has been shouldering tasks, like Darcail, working towards becoming something more than he was. What have I done? I've just been who I was before. Maybe a bit stronger. A bit more determined? I didn't know.
Turlo shifted beside me. “Walk with me, lassie?” he asked. “The music's good, but listening to a long story in a language I don't know is going to put me to sleep.” We walked away from the fire, to where we would not disturb the story.
“We'll sail later tomorrow,” he told me. “Cillian asked for an hour to talk to Sorley, away from us all.”
“I knew he planned to.”
“Aye.” He glanced back at the fire. “The lad's hiding it well tonight, in front of the Marai.”
“You saw it, before Cillian spoke to you?”
“Aye. Officers learn to see these things.”
“Casyn told me once you were a born leader,” I said impulsively. “That you understood men instinctively.”
“Did he now?” He shrugged. “Perhaps. Your Cillian is a brave man, having that conversation with the lad.”
“It's gone on too long, and now with us together—”
“He told me,” Turlo said. “How old is Cillian, Lena?”
“Thirty-three—no, thirty-four,” I replied. “Why?”
“I knew Callan at that age,” he mused. “All three of them, actually; I am only a handful of years younger. I would not have predicted, then, that Callan would be Emperor.”
“Fél—Oran—said much the same,” I remembered. “Why not? He seems, to me at least, to have all the qualities an Emperor should have.”
“Aye, he does now. Not then. He was late maturing, Callan, impulsive and ill-disciplined. Unpredictable. Not like his son, I would say.”
I turned to look towards the fire. “I don't know, Turlo. When I met Cillian, last year—he seemed to me younger than his age, and there was a degree of ill-discipline, I would say, and moodiness. Although he was mourning a friend, so perhaps I am being unfair.”
“You would know,” Turlo said. “May I say something to you, lassie, that I have no right to say, except that you are dear to me?”
“Of course, Turlo.”
“Casyn is my friend, and what I say now may sound disloyal. But he would forgive me, for the reasons I have. I watched him give up what he wanted from his life, to protect and guide his brother.”
“He told me that.”
“He told you?” I heard the genuine surprise in Turlo's voice.
“Yes. He'd said to me once that he hadn't wanted, at my age, to be a general. At the White Fort, after the trial, I asked him why. He told me what you just have. He said he never thought Callan would rise so high.”
“Well, now.” Turlo seemed lost for words. “So he would not mind this conversation at all. Lena, lassie, I see the same potential in Cillian that emerged in Callan when he passed thirty-five. He is meant to be a leader, an influential man. I would hope, mo stóir[5][6], that you do not do what Casyn did.”
I frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean, Turlo?”
“Give up what you want from life, to make his dreams yours, because he needs you,” he said bluntly. “Because you are meant to be a leader, too.”
“Turlo,” I said, “we could all be dead tomorrow, or next week, or in six months. Do any of us have dreams, beyond winning an impossible war?”
“I doubt it,” he said. “But you have never spoken of what might be, if we were to win?”
“Never,” I said. Not quite true, but that was not for Turlo's ears. “How could we? We were exiles, until a few days ago. If we had reached Casil, and found a way to build a life, whose dreams would we have been following?”
“Then I apologize for what I have said.”
“No, Turlo.” I smiled at him. “No need. Let me tell you something. When I was healing, in Berge, before the trial, I had realized I could not go back to Tirvan. I couldn't see a place for me there, without Maya. Or maybe that was part of it, and the other part was it was too small a life now I had ridden the length of the Empire, seen Casilla, served on the Wall. I'm not sure.” I was thinking this out as I spoke, but it had the ring of truth to me. “And then I liked it at the Ti'ach. I liked the chance to learn, to try to understand our history. If there is any future, beyond war, then I think it will be something I cannot see now. Except that, the gods willing,” I said, quietly, “Cillian will be there.”
“Aye,” Turlo said. “I hope that is true, for you both.” He brightened. “I should know better than to worry about you, lassie. But keep my words close, if you will.”
Blood and violence and pain ripped through my dreams that night. I awoke sweating, my heart pounding, but from the silence around me I must not have screamed. I rose to my feet as quietly as possible, moving to the edge of the river. Cillian did not stir.
I sat down on the grass, shivering a little as the night breeze dried the sweat on my body. The scar on my breast ached. I tried to sort through the images, looking for a reason I had dreamed tonight. Tirvan, of course, my unconscious mind churning through what I could not bring myself to picture awake. Ivor. Berge.
Why Berge? I had spoken of it briefly, to Turlo, earlier. Turlo...Berge. Words floated in: Arey, her name is, from Berge...when he told Donnalch who Darel's mother was. I know what happened at Berge, and it was very bad, and, I was true to my Arey for all her life.
Oh, Turlo. Darel, and then your love? How do you keep going?
So much pain, for us all. I wanted arms around me, but Cillian had a difficult task ahead of him in a few hours. I could deal with this. The thoughts and images intruded at random times, day or night, and usually I just pushed them down, feeding them to the snake of anger that lay coiled within. But now I let them flow. I saw the Marai ships, and their men, arriving at Tirvan; I saw the swords and axes in their hands and what they did with them, and the faces of the women desperately fighting back, and losing. And I saw—and felt—what else the men did.
I didn't cry. I am past tears, now, I thought. I lay back on the grass and let the images come, and when they stopped, I was as exhausted as if I had wielded the sword for an hour. But I had moved into a different place in my mind, from the flames of rage and grief to one of cold acceptance, and a colder wish for revenge.
Cillian woke at dawn. I had gone back to lie beside him, and surprisingly had fallen back into a dreamless sleep. His quiet movements roused me.
“Hello, my love,” I murmured.
“Käresta. I tried not to wake you. Forla.”
“It's all right.” I watched him flexing his shoulders. “You're sore, this morning.”
“No matter; it will pass.” He leaned over to kiss me. “I am going to walk. I need to think about what I am going to say to Sorley.”
“Tell him what you told me.”
“I will. I just need to think about how.” He stood, stretching, and walked off up-river. I watched him for a minute, not envying him his morning task and how Sorley would react. And how we would all cope, afterwards, on a small ship. Would it have been better to just keep ignoring the situation?
/> I didn't know, and Turlo hadn't suggested it as a better course, so the outcome would just be something more for us to deal with. Another sorrow to shoulder. Because it was a sorrow, even among all the larger ones.
After some time I walked a little way up-river to where a small, treed island created a sheltered side channel, to bathe. Mostly I bathed, or swam, at night when darkness gave me privacy, but I was lethargic this morning and the water would help. I had washed and was turning for the ship when Cillian called my name.
He caught up with me. “Otter,” he said, smiling, trailing a finger through my wet hair.
How did I deserve this, amidst so much sorrow and loss? “You've worked out what to say?” I asked.
“I think so. Walk back with me.”
I thought about telling him what I had realized about Turlo's losses last night, then decided no. Later. At the ship, Sorley leaned on the rail, casually talking to Geiri.
“Mo charaidh, siollë liovha?[7]" Cillian called up to him.
“De'mhin[8],” Sorley replied.
“Meas.” I listened as they walked away. Cillian's voice, conversing in his native tongue, was different: less precise, less measured, more expressive. He cannot speak to me that way, I thought, and for a second, I felt bereft, and jealous of Sorley. But only for a moment, until I mentally shook myself into pragmatism and went to shoot more ducks.
Cillian came back to the ship alone. I went out to meet him. He looked tired, and resigned. I didn't ask, just walked with him until he was ready to talk.
“Sorley asked to be left to walk; he'll catch up with us at the first mooring,” he said. The ship moved slowly enough.
“Was it bad?”
“Hard, rather than bad. For both of us. I think he understands, though.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. I need something to drink, but otherwise, yes. You do not mind if I don't tell you much more?” he asked gently.
“Of course not.”
“He did want me to tell you something. He said, 'Tell Lena I'm glad it's her.’"
“Oh,” I said. “Will he talk to me, do you think?”
“Give him a bit of time, but yes. Can I ask why?”
Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy Page 82