“How could he swear an oath to the Empire, then?” I couldn't make sense of this.
“He had never sworn one to Linrathe, or, to be precise, to Donnalch. Either he would not, or Donnalch would not accept it. I don't know which.”
I thought back to what Cillian had said, in our first real conversation in the Durrains. As a toscaire I had to be seen as impartial, he’d told me. We’d been talking about why he hadn't fought. I'd thought the answer incomplete, at the time.
“But the outcome of this is, Lena, he will not break his promise to himself, about you.”
“He told you, then?”
“Yes. I think, as I said, telling someone is part of the ritual.” He smiled, a little sadly. “I am aware, Lena, of the trust he put in me, with that.”
“More than trust,” I said, silently thanking Cillian for the generosity, for making Sorley know he was valued.
“You know he has not told me what it is?” I asked suddenly. Sorley looked surprised, and then puzzled. “I asked him not to,” I clarified. “I have also made a promise, concerning him, but it seemed like tempting fate, to exchange them in a time of war and uncertainty, when so many things might cause us to break them against our will.”
Sorley nodded. “I can see that.” He was quiet again. “Would it...suit you, Lena, to have me hold that promise too?”
It seemed right, somehow. “Would you do that, for me? For us?”
“How can I not?” he said, softly.
“Then yes, so you can tell him, if I die in this war without it spoken.”
“Tell me, then,”
“He said to me once that he had never known anything except waking alone,” I said. I saw the brief flash of hurt in Sorley's eyes. “My vow is very simple. I promised that, if it were in my power, he would never do so again.” Could I keep that promise, if this wound would not heal? Would he want me beside him?
He smiled. “They fit, yours and his. But I should say no more. He will keep his vow, Lena, as I know you will keep yours.” He hesitated. “I do not hate you, Lena, you must see that?” I nodded. “Nor am I jealous. Envious, rather, but also happy, that he found the love he needed to leave behind his vow of celibacy, even though he would not, for me.”
I had encouraged Sorley to talk about Cillian, because I thought he needed to. And because I wanted to hear it, I acknowledged. But now my mind roiled. The love he needed? But at midwinter, I had been clear with him about what I offered, and he had made no mention of love to me. Would he have, though? I tried to put it out of my mind. I had to focus. I had a role to play in front of Mihae in a minute or two, one that might be important for us all. I could not let my private concerns interfere with that.
I put my hand on the hilt of my secca as we walked towards the central hall, hoping its feel would focus me on what I had to do. It helped, a bit. By the time we entered the hall, I was calmer.
I saw Cillian's eyes narrow just slightly when he saw the secca, and then the tiny nod of approval, or understanding. Only he and Turlo and Mihae sat at a long table, vellum and pens in front of them, the kidskin covered with writing.
Mihae gave me an assessing look. I made myself return the gaze, evaluating him as well. I was a soldier, I reminded myself. His hair, not quite as dark as Cillian's, fell nearly to his shoulders, and his eyes were green. The beard was neatly trimmed, and when I glanced at his hands I saw the fingernails were clean, and clipped. A civilised man, making the best arrangement he could with these unexpected foreigners. What did he want from me?
“Sorley,” Turlo said. “Will you read over this agreement and ensure the figures and terms are correct? Cillian wrote this, from his notes; it will be copied later, and I will ask you to read the copy, too, at the time.”
“Of course,” Sorley said, taking the vellum and moving to the best-lit part of the room.
“Lena.” Turlo turned to me. “Mihae has a request. It is a request from him, and not an order from me, mind. Sylana trades with Casil, although their boats will not go that way again for some weeks. He has offered us a map, and a talk with an experienced captain, but for a price.”
“Which is?” I asked. Both would be of great value to us, but how did I come into this?
“His men are dismissive of the idea that women can be soldiers. He would like a demonstration of your skills, so that they might be more prepared for what women can do, were they ever to encounter them, in battle.”
“Which skills?”
“Bow and knife, if you would.”
Was there a trap in this? I glanced at Cillian. He was listening, his eyes a little distant. I could see the shadow of fatigue under them.
“Is there more to this than appears?” I asked bluntly, of both Turlo and Cillian.
“Not that I can see,” Cillian said. “General?”
“Nor I. Although we should ask exactly how these skills are to be shown. A map is not worth it, if he wants Lena to engage in bow or knife combat, with their men.”
“Ask him, too, if I will be allowed my own knife, and my own bow.”
Cillian asked. Mihae smiled, nodded, shook his head, talked.
“For the knife, just thrown at a target. For the bow, they will make some goats run, and you are to shoot one while they are moving. Nothing more, he says. And your weapons, in both cases.”
“Do you want me to do this?”
“The information would be extremely useful,” Turlo answered.
“Then I will.”
Turlo walked me back to the ship for my bow and arrows. “If we can conclude things reasonably soon,” he told me, “we can sail on the evening tide.”
“How far, to Casil?”
“Not sure, lassie. A couple of weeks? We'll know more later, if the trader captain is honest, and the map accurate.”
“You've been gone a long time already,” I said. I didn't need to say more.
“Aye,” Turlo said. “A worry. This is a very faint hope, as I'm sure you know, Lena.”
“I know,” I said. “An arrow, I thought, one arrow, shot into darkness, hoping to find its target.”
“A poet, are you now?” he said, with a faint grin. “Although the analogy is apt, lassie.” He grew serious. “I am your general speaking, for a minute,” he said. “Something you need to understand. You are deserving of promotion, and I dislike leaving you as a Guard while Cillian now has an officer's rank. But, it is necessary, and you should know why. This is a rule that has, we believe, come down to us from Casil, and so it must be kept in case it is still in force, there. Relationships between officers and men are acceptable; between two officers, no. So were I to give you the promotion you deserve, you would not—might not—be allowed to be with him. And I would not do that to either of you.”
“General, it is your adjutant you need by your side, to translate and analyze and negotiate,” I said, “not me.”
“Not entirely true,” he answered. “Your thoughts are often useful. You are very much like your father in some ways, Lena, and he would never accept promotion. Although I often found ways to bring him into discussions, so I can with you, too.” We walked a bit further. “I also want you by my adjutant's side,” he said, “because I can see how what I am requiring him to do is burdening him. But I have no choice, and I must use my two soldiers as I best can, for the Empire.”
“Ask Sorley, too,” I said. “I know he is not yours to command, but—may I speak freely, General?”
“You may.”
“It seems a small thing, but I think it matters. Cillian is different, somehow, when he speaks his native tongue. I think he finds some relief in not having to always speak another language, maybe especially now. I know you are nearly fluent, but you are his commanding officer...Sorley is a friend. Could you encourage Sorley to talk to him?”
“Can Sorley do this, given what lies between them?” Turlo asked.
“I am still speaking freely?”
“Yes,”
“Then, yes, I believe he can. I think
he will, if you couch it terms of lessening the burden on Cillian. He is not going to stop loving him, but is it not better to channel that love into something useful for them both? Especially since there is no escape for Sorley, here, or on the ship?”
“Aye,” Turlo said thoughtfully. “And that quality of thinking, both caring and pragmatic, is why you should not be just a Guard. I will speak with the lad.”
On a clear area outside the hall a target had been raised. Men thronged the perimeter of the field, talking and laughing. Cillian came over to me.
“He wants five throws. It seems too simple, but I can't get him to tell me anything more.”
I shrugged. “We'll find out, I suppose.”
Mihae indicated where he wanted me to stand. I nodded. Then I faced the target, standing very still, judging wind and the flatness of the ground. I took my secca from my boot sheath, said a silent prayer to a goddess I didn't believe in, and threw.
Right on target. A young man ran over, pulled the secca from the butt, and brought it to me. I smiled at him, positioned myself, and threw again. And a third time. This time, when the secca was returned to me, Mihae asked something.
“Can you throw, kneeling?” Cillian translated.
I could. But I hadn't practiced that since Tirvan, two years before. I sank to one knee, estimating, trying to let my muscles and my mind remember. A slightly different shoulder movement, a slightly different knife position.
The secca hit the target off centre, but within the marked ring. Comments and shouts from the men. I hadn't heard them, on the previous throws. I stood up.
“Can you change hands?”
“No.” I shook my head, turning to Mihae. “No.”
I had one more throw. I stepped into position. I heard a footstep behind me, and suddenly I was back in the dream. My fingers clenched on the secca, and I began to crouch and turn.
Cillian said something, sharply. The footsteps grew closer. Mihae's voice, too close to me. More footsteps, fast, coming at me. I swiveled on my rear foot, dropping my knife arm to bring the secca up low, lunging forward at the man behind me. He sidestepped, with a dancer's grace, my knife brushing a sleeve. My body's momentum moved me forward. I used the force to spin again, bringing my knife up this time, but he was ready for me. He caught my knife arm, held it up, using his other arm to pull me tight against his body. I couldn't move. I struggled, fear and anger coursing through me, kicking and twisting. “Lena,” Cillian said. “Lena, it's me. I'm here. It's all right. You're safe.” The words, repeated and repeated, finally broke through. I sagged against him. He loosened his hold slightly. “Can I let you go?”
“Yes,” I said. He released me. “Did I hurt you?” I asked.
“No. A few bruises, maybe, and a graze, if that. I haven't looked.” He glanced at the sleeve of his tunic. “It's nothing.”
I turned to glare at Mihae. He held up his hands as if to indicate he had meant no disrespect. “He wanted you to throw blindfolded,” Cillian said. “He was going to tie a scarf around your eyes.”
I gave Mihae a long look, as disdainful as I could make it, and then without more than a glance at the target, I turned and threw, in one fluid motion. The secca hit just left of centre. I stalked over to retrieve the knife, my head high, hoping the trembling I could feel was not visible.
“That was the fifth throw. No more,” I said, hearing Cillian's quiet translation. Mihae relayed the words to the crowd, which gave back mutters and one or two shouted comments, or questions. I ignored them, and Cillian disdained telling me what they'd said.
Turlo waited for me, when I came back with the knife. “That's enough,” he said. “You're not using the bow, after that.”
“Turlo,” I said. “I am. Don't ask me not to.”
“I'm not asking. I am ordering you, Guard.”
“No,” I said, keeping my voice low. “You may try me for insubordination if you wish, but I am not, remember, doing this under orders. You were very specific about that. I am doing to gain us information we need. You are, in your own words, burdening Cillian beyond exhaustion to get us away from here. Do not stop me from using my skills to help us once we are free to leave.”
His eyes went to Cillian. “Don't,” I said again. “This is not his choice, nor am I his to control.”
He exhaled. “Against my better judgment,” he said. “Do what you need to, Lena.”
We followed Mihae, and the crowd followed us, through the town to a field at the edge. Eight or nine goats grazed on the rough pasture. My anger was gone, replaced by cold, clear purpose. The shot would be slightly downhill, and the breeze here felt stronger, straight off the water. The light was good, though, the sun still nearly overhead. There was enough breeze that the sea was choppy, eliminating most reflected glare. I judged all this as we approached. I'd shot deer, at Tirvan, under similar conditions. But not with this bow.
I thought about the bow's weak draw, and the heavy arrow, and where I needed to stand. The goats grazed placidly. They would send a dog out among them to get them to run. I would shoot when they neared the wattle fence closest to me. I raised the bow, nocked an arrow, sighted.
“Mihae says,” Cillian told me, “he'd like the brown-and-white doe, but any will be acceptable.” I found the goat in question; she did stand out, which would help. I nodded.
“I'm ready,” I said. I was ready, until they sent five children out to chase the goats.
Little children, five or six years old. None of us had thought to ask how the goats would be made to run. I let the bow drop slightly. “Don't do it,” Cillian said.
“We need the map, and the instructions,” I answered. I was still cold, and very clear. “The test is not killing the goat. The test is whether I will do it, with the children there. Wait. Look for the pattern. I will need you to tell me when to shoot.” I didn't bother to look to see if he agreed.
I forced myself to concentrate, watching the goats, watching the children. Mihae said something; Cillian growled an answer. I kept watching. The children were chasing the animals, but they weren't getting in among them, but staying at the edge of the herd. If I shot low, aiming the arrow's drop for the very edge of the fence, there would be almost no danger to a child.
I raised the bow again. Someone watching gasped. Part of my mind wondered if one of the children was his. I wasn't going to try for the brown-and-white doe; I was just going to shoot into the mass of animals when they crowded against the fence, and hope I killed one. “You see?” I murmured to Cillian.
“Yes.”
“Tell me when they are rounding the corner again. I want them all along the close fence.”
I drew the bow, holding the draw, focusing on the shot, not the animals. “Soon,” Cillian warned, and “Now.” The goats massed along the fence, and the arrow flew.
One of the children must have seen it, because he or she screamed. The goats scattered, but one lay kicking. Not the doe, but a smaller, brown animal, with the arrow just behind its front leg. I handed Cillian the bow, and walked down to cut the animal's throat, in front of all the men.
I wiped the blood off my knife and my hands and walked back to where Mihae stood. “You owe us a map, and your captain must tell us the truth,” I spat. My tone would not need translation. I gathered the bow, and the quiver, feeling the energy drain from me. “I must stay,” Cillian said. “Sorley will walk you to the ship, and fetch Geiri.”
“Can I not walk back by myself, now?” I said.
“Perhaps,” he answered. “Or perhaps not, not safely. I would prefer to not worry about you, Lena.” It was mildly said, but the rebuke was there. He had other things to concentrate on, for all of us, and my pride should not interfere with that. Nor, it seemed, would the fact that I had tried to kill him, earlier.
Sorley gave me a worried look, but he said nothing. He escorted me to the ship. I sat, drained of energy. Sorley went to speak to Geiri. I needed food, I knew. After a while I got up, found what remained of the bread and soft cheese
from breakfast, and made myself eat. The deck was hot in the afternoon sun. I stretched out in our sleeping place.
I didn't sleep. I didn't think much about what I had done, or why. I just drifted, letting images float by, suspended in some place out of time. After what felt like a long while, I heard voices. Mihae, and a woman's voice, and then Cillian's. They had come for the fee.
I heard Cillian's footsteps on the deck. He came over to our space. He placed a rolled kidskin in his pack, then knelt beside me. “I only have a minute,” he said. “Are you all right, käresta?”
“Just tired,” I said. I sat up. “Cillian, what can I say?”
“There is nothing to say,” he said. “You were threatened. You reacted. That's all.”
“I tried to kill you!” Why was he always so calm, so reasonable? I answered my own question. Because he is trained to analyze, and to be dispassionate in his conclusions.
“No, Lena, you did not. Mihae threatened you, in your mind. I stepped between you, because murdering our host seemed to me to be a waste of all our negotiations, somehow.”
“Why do you do that?” I demanded. “Always deflect, like that?”
“Years of practice,” he said, almost lightly. “Years of avoiding how I feel, I suppose.” He took my hand, his long fingers curving around mine. “We should talk about what happened today. But right now, Lena, I am weary, and there is one more thing to do that cannot be put off. Will you come to see the fee paid? Or, rather, to see the beauty of what Irmgard is giving up?”
“Do you want me be there?”
“Always. But I also think you should be, to be respectful of Mihae. We do hope to come back this way, before long.”
Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy Page 85