I made the tea as strongly as I thought I could and still have it palatable. I wondered if Rafn would drink it, and if he would keep it down. It was horribly bitter, but I had grown used to it over time.
By the time I brought it to him, Rafn had thrown off the furs, sweating profusely. “Help him sit up,” I told Geiri. I held the cup to his lips. “Tell him this tastes terrible, but he must drink it.” Sorley relayed the message. Rafn took a sip, and spat it out. “Na!” I said, and held the cup up again. This time he swallowed the tea, grimacing, and over the next few minutes we got most of it down him. He fell into a restless sleep.
At dinner, fish stew made from the dried supplies, and a rough biscuit, one of the other men pushed his bowl away. Geiri questioned him, sharply. “His head hurts, and he does not want food,” Sorley told me. The stewpot had been cleaned and filled again with water. It steamed over the firebowl. I tested it with a finger: hot enough. I put handfuls of anash into the pot, stirred it, and left it to settle and steep. I'd used nearly half my supply, I noted.
Geiri took the cup of anash over the man, who shook his head. They argued, and in the end the man drank it down. But a few minutes later he stumbled to the side and vomited. He sank down against the side, and I could see he was shivering.
By morning we had three sick men: Rafn, Detlef, who had fallen sick at dinner, and Ulv. Detlef concerned me the most: he simply could not keep the anash down, hot or cold. The other two alternated between chills and fever, the violent shivering giving way to profuse sweating. Rafn hallucinated, thrashing under his furs, sometimes taking two men to hold him down. Ulv lay quieter, occasionally moaning. But each bout of shaking left Detlef weaker, and even Geiri could not get him to drink anything.
In the night, I had remembered what Dagney had told me about the ring game, and the red rash of the Eastern Fever. Whatever this was, then, it wasn't that, but the anash appeared to help, so I kept giving it to them. Rind and Hana and Sorley helped, cooling the men with cloths dipped in water when their fevers ran high and piling on furs when they shivered.
“If anyone else falls ill, I do not have enough anash,” I told Turlo and Cillian on the third day after Rafn had complained of headache.
“No one else is showing symptoms,” Cillian said.
“No. And we haven't kept them separate at all. Maybe no one else will. Maybe something gave them this fever, but not anyone else. I wish I could talk to my mother.” The words brought sudden tears to my eyes. I did want my mother, and not just because I needed her healer's wisdom. I wanted against all odds to know she was safe, to see her hands retying her hair as she thought out a problem, to hear her calm, reasoning voice. I began to cry. “I don't know what I'm doing.”
His arms went around me immediately. “Shhh, käresta,” his voice murmured. “You're tired.”
“Aye,” Turlo said. “Step down, Guard. The others know what to do. You're resting until we eat tonight.”
He was right. I would be of no use if I too fell ill, or was simply confused by tiredness. I stepped back from Cillian's embrace. “General,” I said, acknowledging the order. Suddenly I wanted the feel of water. “May I swim first, before I rest?”
“Aye,” he replied. “Adjutant, keep an eye on her in the water. But I want you back working on these plans before too long, mind.”
I stripped, realizing as I did that I had not changed shirt or breeches for several days, and slipped over the side into the warmth of the sea. Cillian was right behind me. I submerged, running my hands through my hair, before turning over and floating, the waves rocking me. Cillian swam over to me.
“As if you need anyone to keep an eye on you in the water,” he said.
“Turlo was being kind, giving us a little time together,” I replied. I had my eyes closed against the sun.
“I know. Would you tell me about your mother, Lena?”
I had not told him much about her, avoiding it because he had grown up without his. I had spoken more of Dovekie and fishing, and council meetings, than I had of my family. “Her name was Gwen,” I answered.
“Is,” Cillian said quietly. “Until you know with certainty, she is not lost. You are holding on to your end of the thread. Just as she will have been doing for you.”
“Is,” I repeated. “She is healer and midwife to Tirvan, along with my sister Kira. Kira has a different father,” I added. “She—my mother—is a council leader, along with her sister Sara.”
“Do you look like her?”
“My mother? No. She's rounder, and a little shorter than me, compact. Our hair is close in colour, although hers is darker, but she wears hers up on her head, and it was half-grey, the last time I saw her, in Berge. And her eyes are blue. I look more like Galen, if you remember.”
“I suppose you do,” Cillian said, treading water beside me. “In build, and his eyes were hazel, too, weren't they?”
“Yes.”
“Your childhood was happy, käresta, I can tell, with your mother, and sister.”
“And aunts and cousins, and all the women.” I smiled, remembering, feeling the grief not far below. “Thank you, my love. I think I will sleep now.”
We swam back to the ship. As we dried, Cillian made a quiet sound of contemplation. I looked at him questioningly. “Gwen,” he said. “My mother was Hafwen, or Wenna, as my father called her. Just a coincidence, but still... Go and sleep now, Lena.”
Detlef died that evening, convulsing and screaming before slipping into unconsciousness and then death. With little ceremony, ballast rocks and one axe were placed inside his tunic, his belt tightened around his wasted frame to hold them in place, and his body given to the sea. The other two men still cycled through bouts of shivering and sweating, but they were no worse, and no one else had fallen ill.
My supply of anash grew very low. I was guessing as to the smallest amount I could drink each evening. I would, I decided, give up my own daily tea if I had to: we weren't going to make love on the ship, and even if there was opportunity once we reached Casil, well, we could find other ways to be together, as Cillian had pointed out once. And maybe, I thought, I can get more anash, once we're there.
But it did not prove necessary. Rafn and Ulv began to improve the next day, their fevers abating. They were as weak as newborn rabbits, but they were going to live. After another day, I reduced the anash to morning and night doses, with willow-bark as needed in between. Had the tea made a difference? I had no way to know.
Chapter Fourteen
Five days later, in the long rays of early evening light, we came to Casil.
For the three days previous, we had sailed past villages that straggled up the coastal cliffs as the land rose steadily. The shouted conversations with fishing boats had increased, and we made a few trades for fresh fish, and any information about rocks or shoals the fishermen could give us. This morning had dawned clear, as all the days did, but with a fair breeze. To the north the land rose even higher, and from our anchored position in the sea we could see a tall tower at the top.
“Geiri says that's the headland marked on the map, and once we pass it we turn north,” Sorley reported.
“If we are allowed to,” Turlo said. “If we can see the tower, they can see us. Expect to be challenged.” Sorley repeated the words to Geiri in Marái'sta. Geiri grunted acknowledgment and spoke to his men.
“We are clear on our stories?” Turlo asked. We had debated this yesterday, not for the first time. There was no issue regarding Irmgard: Cillian would relay her true story. But for the four of us, what was best, once Irmgard's status had been settled and we were free to present our own petition? At the heart of the question had been Cillian, and to a lesser extent, me. Turlo would be presented as exactly what he was: a senior officer, sent in the Emperor's name to request help from Casil. Sorley was a noble from Linrathe, speaking for the people resisting Fritjof there. But was Cillian simply Turlo's adjutant, or was he the Emperor's son?
“Present me as your adjutant,” Cillian
had argued, “until we know more about how Emperors are chosen here. We believe it to be an inherited position, or why else would the Empress be regent for her son? But she could be clinging to power, or being propped up by powerful men as a figurehead. We can always reveal the other later, if it is necessary.”
“I suppose you are right,” Turlo had said in the end. “We should hold that fact in reserve. Now what about Lena?
“I am going to make you an officer, lassie,” Turlo decided. “I know the difficulties, but as an officer you will, I hope, be allowed whatever privileges may be offered; as a simple soldier, I am afraid you will be separated from us.”
Put like that, I saw no option. “I suppose.” I would at least be close to Cillian, this way. “All right,” I said.
“Cohort-leader, again, then,” Turlo said. I had been offered this, on the Wall as well, but I'd had had enough of making decisions then and turned it down. I nodded.
“Done,” Turlo announced. “Cillian, explain yourself as a translator, negotiator, whatever words you need to use, and Lena as a junior officer, brought along as part of her training.”
Sorley exhaled loudly. “I don't like this,” he said. “Why are we misleading people we hope to be our allies?” I didn't entirely disagree with him. Something about these conversations bothered me.
“Not misleading,” Cillian said, “just revealing as little as possible, couching our roles in simple terms to begin with. If this Empire has indeed gone on unbroken in the five hundred years since we were last in contact, these will be people skilled in the arts of diplomacy and negotiation, far more than any of us. They will expect us either to be unschooled in those arts, our request for help simple, or, they will assume at least some subtlety from us. It is like playing xache with a new opponent. It is never wise to give away your strategy in the first few moves.”
“But our request for help is simple,” Sorley argued.
“Is it?” Turlo and Cillian exchanged a look. “Sorley, we have spoken of this before. Do you think, mo charaidh, that they will give us assistance simply because the West has kept faith with them for all these years?” Cillian asked. “They will want something in return, if they agree.”
“What? What can we give them, in return?”
“At the very least, tribute. At the most, our independence. You must accept that we may be exchanging Marai overlords for those of the East, a known horror for an unknown, possibly. What we hope is that the East has retained those aspects of our own societies that we consider civilised.”
“But our own two countries don't agree on that,” I said.
“They do not,” Cillian agreed. “Which is why much of Sorham and Linrathe sided with Fritjof. If Ǻsmund were on the throne of Varsland, and he had approached the Teannasach with an eye to a different treaty between Varsland and Linrathe, one that emphasised our commonalities, Linrathe would have moved towards Varsland, not the Empire. Do you not agree, Sorley?”
“I suppose so,” Sorley said.
“Nor would the Empire have seen Linrathe as a natural ally,” Turlo said. “All this will likely have to be revealed in any discussion of support from Casil. But slowly and carefully.”
“I am going to have to decide what Linrathe would give up for help from Casil, am I not?” Sorley asked.
“Either you or me, Sorley, and I have no right to do so now, nor ever did,” Cillian answered. “You are noble, and can at least claim some authority.”
“How does leadership in Linrathe work?” I asked. “Donnalch was chosen Teannasach, was he not?”
“The Teannasach always comes from one family,” Cillian replied, “although not always the oldest in the direct line, and sometimes not even from the direct line, if there are no male heirs, or there are doubts about competency. Lorcann's son could be the next Teannasach, in theory, if Ruar were deemed unsuitable.”
“But as both are still boys, who would be—regent? Is that the right word?”
Cillian frowned. “A good question, and not one I can answer. Donnalch and Lorcann had one uncle: if he is still alive, it would most likely be him. If he is dead—” He shook his head. “It is too tangled to work out, from this distance, not knowing who lives or is dead.”
“But is there a council of advisors to the Teannasach?”
“Yes. They meet twice a year. But they advise, not direct, the Teannasach. Why are you asking this, Lena?”
“I am trying to understand what authority Sorley might have.”
“About the same as you have, to speak for the Empire's villages,” Turlo said, “if I understand this correctly.”
“Which is none,” I pointed out.
“Which is not something we had considered, at all,” Turlo replied. “Cillian, is this something else to hold in reserve?”
“It might be,” Cillian said. “I will need to think about that, how and when it might be useful.”
A wave of anger engulfed me at his words. “Can you hear yourself?” I said. “You are playing games, just as Callan did, using Sorley and me as pieces to gain an end. How can you?” I had wanted to escape this, this callous interplay of power and politics. As had he, I had thought.
“Because I must. We must. Because this is not about power, but about the lives of men and women we care about,” he replied, gently. “And I am using myself, too, and Turlo, and Irmgard, in a way. I promise you both that I—we—will do our best to have you choose as freely as any of us can. You saw, just now, that the idea of you representing the women's villages of the Empire was new, for both Turlo and me, and Sorley has known his role for some time.”
“I have,” Sorley said. “It just wasn't real, until now, and perhaps I had not realized all the ramifications. I suppose none of us can, until we know what Casil might ask of us. Cillian, did you mean these words? That you promise to let us choose as freely as we can?”
“I did.”
“Then that is all I need to hear. I trust you to do what is needed, and counsel me in what is best for Linrathe.”
My quick anger had subsided, leaving discontent in its wake. But what had I thought would happen in Casil? Of course there would be long, detailed, subtle negotiations. We hadn't got out of Sylana without them, and all we'd wanted to do was pass through. And Cillian had made a promise. “Forgive me,” I said. “I too trust you both, to do what is needed.” I caught Cillian's eye. “Forla,” I murmured. He smiled, slightly, acknowledging the private apology.
“True authority or not, you must think about what the women's villages might want, and what they might give,” Turlo said, “for you are the only person who can speak for them.”
“I understand,” I replied. I didn't want to do this. But nor did Sorley want to make decisions for Linrathe. I watched Cillian run a hand through his hair and along the back of his neck, stretching to relieve tension. Turlo looked grim. None of us wanted what we had been brought to. Not just we four, but Irmgard and her women, and even Geiri and his men. I had to accept that. I was twenty-one, four years an adult. It was time I acted like it.
The crew adjusted the sail, and Geiri leaned hard on the steerboard at the right of the ship. The sun had passed its zenith a couple of hours earlier. We began to curve around the headland. Almost immediately, three ships began to approach. We slowed.
One ship came up beside us on each side. The third stayed behind. We waited, weaponless, hands at our sides, except for the men needed to work sails and ropes. Irmgard stood at the bow, Rind and Hana with her. I hope we looked unthreatening. The left-hand ship came in very close, the rowers positioning the long oars to allow it. A man—short haired, shaven, dressed in tunic and cloak, sword at his side—called out.
Calmly, Cillian replied. His Casilan sounded, to me, much more fluent and much more confident. He held up the rolled vellum. The two ships manoeuvred even closer until it could be passed, tied to an oar, from one to the other.
The man on the Casilani ship read it, frowning. He looked up, his eyes raking our ship, focusing on
Irmgard and then on Turlo and Cillian. He glanced down at the letter again. “Séquer!” he called, and then something to his men. They began to row.
“Follow him,” Cillian translated. “We have passed the first test.”
“What did the letter say?” I asked.
“It is Irmgard's petition for sanctuary,” Cillian answered. “It outlined her reasons for fleeing, and that we—her escort—are from the Western Empire, sent by the Emperor to protect her. Sorley, I am afraid your role was not explained; I thought it would complicate the petition too greatly.”
“You know best,” Sorley replied.
“The hope was that the Empress will look kindly on another royal woman's petition for sanctuary, and the mention of the Western Empire will catch her interest. I imagine that archaic written Casilan may also be a curiosity, and perhaps a validation.”
It took several hours to cross the wide bay. The Casilani ships maintained a steady pace, not too fast, spaced around us. I watched their ships: higher than ours and half again as long, wider beamed for stability, and with a different sail arrangement. Warships, I thought.
“Look!” Cillian said. I turned from my study of the ships to look. Ahead of us stood a tall tower tipped with flame, and on either side wide jetties curved out to nearly meet the tower, creating a huge, sheltered basin. Behind that, lit with gold by the westering sun, tall buildings of stone lined the harbour.
“Casil, your powers are these: to make the peace and ensure the rule of law, to show mercy to the conquered and overcome the proud," Cillian said. Sorley joined him on the last phrases, confirming my thought that Cillian was quoting someone.
“What's that from?” I asked.
“A long, long poem, a danta of sorts, I suppose, about the legendary founding of Casil,” Sorley said. “I don't think I remember any more of it but that line. Donnalch liked to quote it.”
“I remember learning that as a cadet,” Turlo said. “I didn't know it was from a long poem, though.”
Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy Page 87