Another omen: the commander needing help to attend a meeting to discuss war. But he dismissed the thought, nodded to Tolga, and limped toward the stairs.
* * *
“We must end the Cateni threat forever, and that means taking the north. And that means starting with Onglse.”
Altan listened to Great-Voice Utka deliver his ultimatum, the words echoing in the reception chamber, now largely empty of courtiers, scribes, and servants. A quartet each of Pashtuk’s and Utka’s personal guards (who were very carefully pretending to neither listen to nor look at the three men) and a few servants stood at the walls to respond to any needs. Altan resisted the temptation to sigh. Utka was nothing if not predictable; he’d expected the Great-Voice to bring up this point sometime during Pashtuk’s visit.
Pashtuk, seated as usual on the dais, didn’t reply, the fingers of his right hand continuing to stroke his oiled beard as if he were petting a cat. His gaze seemed directed somewhere between Utka and Altan, both of whom were sitting on chairs placed before the dais. The silence evidently bothered the Great-Voice, for Utka began speaking again. “Once we take Onglse, my Emperor, we’ll have plunged a sword into the very heart of the northern clans. It’s what we should have done before. It’s what Great-Voice Vadim wanted and what we might have accomplished if Commander Savas hadn’t decided he was the one who should make decisions and not the Great-Voice.”
And there it is, Altan thought, the center of the matter. His spine crawled as it did sometimes during a battle, as if he were anticipating a killing stroke from behind. He wondered, even after having saved the emperor’s life, whether he was going to walk out of this room today. If not, you’ve had a long and mostly good life for a warrior. The thought seemed a false and cold solace.
Utka kept his face toward Pashtuk, not even glancing at Altan. It was Pashtuk’s regard that swiveled then, as he looked directly at Altan. “Commander?” he grunted, his face impassive and unreadable, his fingers still stroking his beard as if he could conjure the answer from the glossy strands.
Does Pashtuk want the truth, or does he want platitudes that he can take back to Mundoci with him when he returns to the emperor’s throne? Altan felt like he was playing a game of verbal zar atmak with a weighted and untrue die, but without knowing how the die was weighted and what number it would bring up. He knew Great-Voice Utka had been one of Pashtuk’s favorite sycophants back at the capital of Mundoci, that after Great-Voice Vadim’s death at the hand of Ceanndraoi Voada, Utka had petitioned the emperor to be named as Vadim’s successor. He considered the province of Albann to be an easy plum, the next rung in his political ladder. . . as long as he could quell those pesky clans with their annoying tendency to rebel. Utka had never served in the Mundoan army, had never commanded soldiers, had never had to consider battle strategies and tactics. His battles had been with scrolls and laws, and the often deadly combat of those who scrabble for position and favor at the emperor’s court.
But Altan’s disdain for the man didn’t alter the irrefutable fact that the Great-Voice could order Altan’s head to be hewn from his body, imprison him for his failure to carry out orders, or simply strip him of his command and send him back to Rumeli in shame.
This wasn’t Altan’s form of battle, but it was that of both Great-Voice Utka and Emperor Pashtuk. They’d been long immersed in that world and knew its maze of pathways.
Altan realized he’d hesitated too long, that Pashtuk was still staring at him, waiting. Impatience was beginning to crawl over the man’s face. It would have to be the truth, then, since Altan had neither the time nor the skill to craft a believable lie—though this wasn’t the time to tell either of them the whole truth. Not yet, and perhaps never.
“As I’ve said to you before, my Emperor,” Altan began, speaking slowly and carefully and not daring to glance over at Utka, “we need more soldiers—trained Mundoan cohorts—before we can consider invading the north again and taking Onglse. We lost at least a double hand of excellent Mundoan cohorts between trying to take Onglse and our battle with the ceanndraoi and ceannàrd at Siran. The replacements we have now are almost entirely Cateni conscripts, and though they’re commanded by good Mundoan sub-commanders, I would hesitate to trust their skill and especially their loyalty in such a war as Great-Voice Utka is advocating.”
Utka started to protest, but Pashtuk’s right hand left his beard, and he raised his index finger in the Great-Voice’s direction. Altan saw Pashtuk’s dark gaze move to stare blandly at Utka. “I will hear the commander,” he said, and Utka subsided with an audible huff of irritation.
Altan inclined his head to the emperor. More truth, then . . . “It’s not enough to simply attack Onglse, my Emperor. To prevail there, we have to do so with massive forces against trained draoi whose spells and abilities, like it or not, are far superior to those of our sihirki. The Cateni warriors are no small problem on their own, though they’re just soldiers like any others and just as easy to kill. However, we’ve no easy answer for the draoi, and that means we have to have a much larger and disciplined force to compensate. But we could manage that with an army sent from Rumeli as reinforcement. The other problem that has to be addressed is the safety of the south while the bulk of our army is in the north. Taking Onglse, as I know from experience, will take time. We have to have sufficient and well-trained troops stationed here in Albann Deas to protect our towns and cities should the northern clans send a secondary force south over the Meadham, such as the army Ceanndraoi Voada and Ceannàrd Iosa led, and to quell any popular uprisings by the Cateni.”
Altan took a long breath, studying Pashtuk’s face, which remained stolid and silent. “Past that, though, I agree with Great-Voice Utka that ending the Cateni threat requires controlling the north,” he continued. “But at the moment, it’s my opinion that we don’t have the necessary resources.”
“Is Commander Savas simply afraid that he’ll fail as he did before?” Utka interjected, glaring at Altan. “Perhaps one of your sub-commanders should take command, then. Musa, perhaps, or Ilkur.”
Altan looked with feigned calm at the Great-Voice. “I serve entirely at the pleasure of the emperor,” he said, “and I’ll do as my emperor orders. Should he want my resignation, he may send for a scribe, and I’ll dictate and sign it now. If he wants me to take the army I have and attack Onglse again, I’ll also do that. But if he asks me what I believe is the best strategy to accomplish Mundoa’s goals, then I’ll give him my best advice without worrying about what others might think.”
“You’ve hardly shown a propensity to obey orders in the past,” Utka grumbled, but Pashtuk cleared his throat, and Utka’s protest trailed off.
“This bickering does us no good,” Pashtuk said. “I’ve listened to you both. Great-Voice Utka’s determination to put down the Cateni rabble once and for all is a desire I share, especially after what happened in the Great Temple.” Utka gave a satisfied sniff at that and sat back in his chair; Altan felt the knot in his stomach tighten. “But,” Pashtuk continued, “Commander Savas saved my life with his actions, and I have no reason to doubt his ability to lead our soldiers into action. It’s clear to me that had he not disobeyed Great-Voice Vadim’s orders, then Voada’s rebellion would have spread, and her army would have laid waste to more cities and murdered more of our people. If the commander says that our current army isn’t sufficient, I’m inclined to believe him. That’s a situation I can remedy. I’ve already sent word by ship to Mundoci that I wish three full troop ships with Mundoan soldiers sent here to join Commander Savas’ army: a full double hand of cohorts.”
“Thank you, my Emperor,” Altan said.
“Don’t thank me,” Pashtuk answered with a scowl. “I expect you to prove to me that I’ve not just wasted time and money sending you the reinforcements you asked for. I expect you to begin making the necessary plans to execute the Great-Voice’s orders. That will be all for now.” Pashtuk rose from
his throne; Great-Voice Utka rose quickly after him, but Altan was slower to get to his feet, grimacing as twinges ran through his swollen knee. The guards stationed around the room stiffened to attention. Pashtuk gathered his entari around himself and vanished through the curtains at the rear of the dais, held open by liveried servants then released as soon as Pashtuk stepped through. The heavy azure folds swayed.
“Don’t think that you’ve won here, Commander, or that I’ll forget what you’ve said,” Altan heard Great-Voice Utka say before he could move to leave. “I’ll have Onglse and the north, or I’ll have your head. Preferably I’ll have both.”
Great-Voice Utka sniffed. He gestured to his guards and left the room. Altan watched him depart. He could feel the others in the room staring at him, and he forced a wry smile onto his face as if he were amused by what the Great-Voice had said. He then gestured to one of the waiting servants: a Cateni. “Tell my driver that we’ll be leaving,” he told the man, who bowed and hurried away.
Altan waited a few breaths before slowly following after him, not trying to disguise his limp at all. Let them be reminded of what I did in the Great Temple. He wondered if he fooled any of those watching and how quickly they’d report what they’d seen and heard to the emperor.
* * *
“It went well?” Tolga asked as one of the palace servants placed a small set of stairs next to Altan’s chariot and another held out his hand to help him up. Tolga was holding the reins of the two whites firmly, glancing once at them with a scowl. Altan shook his head at the servant’s offer of aid, stared at the stairs for a moment, then reluctantly used them to enter the chariot’s car. Tolga leaped up into the traces, slapping the reins onto the whites’ backs.
“I still have my head,” Altan told Tolga as he turned the horses away from the palace toward the gates and the city streets. “And the emperor is sending additional troops to us.”
“That sounds good,” Tolga said over his shoulder as they passed through the palace gates. The chariot’s wheels chattered over the rutted cobbles of the street. “Though you may not need them if your own plans go well.”
Altan didn’t answer directly. “We’re to return to Onglse,” he added. “So no, I’d say the meeting didn’t go particularly well.”
Altan looked up at the sky as Tolga turned toward the barracks where Altan was staying. The goshawk and the thrushes hadn’t reappeared, but now thunderheads were rising and spreading in the west, the hidden sun painting the edges of the clouds a brilliant, fiery white.
Altan sighed. Addressing the clouds, he raised his voice. “Do you really have to be so obvious?”
“Commander?” Tolga answered.
“It’s nothing,” Altan told him, still staring at the storm clouds and the blue-gray darkness underneath them. “Nothing at all.”
8
A Mother’s Companion
ORLA AND SORCHA WERE SITTING on a stone bench in the south garden of Bàn Cill, the air perfumed by bog myrtle shrubs while blackcaps, garden warblers, and blue tits sang to one another in the surrounding trees. A quartet of red-billed crows prowled among the tall purple-headed thistles and gorse nearby. Orla’s anamacha wasn’t visible in the strong sunlight that washed over them as they ate the lunch Sorcha had prepared, though Orla could feel its presence close to her side, a chill against the sun’s warmth. The incident of two days before still dominated Orla’s thoughts; she had avoided calling the anamacha to her since, something she was certain Ceanndraoi Greum had noticed though he hadn’t yet resumed their “lessons” together.
Part of that was because two people had arrived on Onglse the day following Orla’s attempt to reach her mother’s shade—Ceannàrd Comhnall Mac Tsagairt and his wife, Magaidh—and they seemed to have taken up much of the ceanndraoi’s time. As Orla learned from Sorcha, who seemingly knew all the good sources of gossip around Bàn Cill, Comhnall Mac Tsagairt was àrd of the Mac Tsagairt clan. After Ceannàrd Maol Iosa’s death on the battlefield of Siran, he had taken the title of ceannàrd as he guided the remnants of the Cateni army back across the River Meadham. It was a title he still held.
To Orla, the title mattered less than the fact that Mac Tsagairt kept the Red-Hand occupied and away from her. For now, it was better to take the slice of nut cake that Sorcha offered her and drizzle honey over it.
“That looks delicious.”
The voice—a woman’s—came from the garden’s entrance. Orla looked over her shoulder to see someone standing there: a woman no more than three double hands of age, perhaps a double hand of years older than Orla. Her hair was the color of new corn, long and braided; the bog dress she wore was well made and fine with filigrees of gold and silver at the hem and collar. The brass torc of a draoi adorned her neck. Her eyes were fixed on Orla; the woman’s irises were so pale a blue that they looked like winter ice. Orla could sense the presence of an anamacha alongside the woman.
“You’re Orla Paorach?” the draoi asked, and when Orla nodded, she added, “I’m Magaidh Mac Tsagairt. I knew your mother very well. May I join the two of you?”
Orla slid closer to Sorcha on the bench, gesturing at the space next to her. Magaidh walked toward them, Orla searching the woman for some clue, some sense of why she was there. She wondered whether Greum had sent for her, if perhaps she was the one he’d hoped would take the Moonshadow’s anamacha from Orla. Magaidh smiled gently at her as she approached; Orla couldn’t help giving her a tentative half smile in return.
“I’m so pleased to finally meet you,” Magaidh said, still standing. “You should know that Voada loved you dearly. She said that often to me. I’d like to tell you about my time with her, if you’d like to hear that.” Orla saw her glance toward Sorcha.
“This is Sorcha,” Orla told her. “She helped me escape from the Mundoa, was my companion in finding my way to Onglse, and is my good friend. You may speak as freely in front of her as you would to me. And yes, I very much want to hear what you have to say.”
Magaidh nodded and sat with another glance at Sorcha. Orla could see fine wrinkles around the woman’s eyes, and there was pain hidden there that Magaidh’s smile couldn’t touch, as if she’d seen things she would rather forget. Orla saw her glance at the silver oak leaf on its leather string around Orla’s neck. “You look so much like your mam,” she said. “I’d have known you for her daughter without being told.”
“You knew my mother that well, then?”
“Voada taught me to be a draoi. She was with me when I first merged with my anamacha.” Her fingers lifted to touch the polished knobs of her torc. “My husband and I were the very first to follow her and Ceannàrd Iosa after they left Onglse. My husband served as Maol Iosa’s First Àrd, and I . . .” One shoulder lifted and fell. “I was First Draoi to the ceanndraoi and as much of a friend to her as anyone could be. We were with your mother when she first crossed over the River Meadham into the south; we were there when she took Trusa from the Great-Voice of the Mundoa.” A look of pain crossed her face, and her eyes glistened. She released a breath. “And we were there with her at Siran, the last battle,” she finished.
“And why are you here now?” Orla asked her.
“I came because I heard you were here.”
“Was it Ceanndraoi Greum who told you to come?”
Magaidh gave a small shake of her head. “He asked my husband to come. Not me. He . . . well, I don’t think the Red-Hand ever forgave your mother for allowing the people who flocked to her to give her the title of ceanndraoi. His title. He probably told you she stole the title, but I’ll tell you that’s not true; the title was given to her freely by those around her. And because I was one who followed her, because I was close to her . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she glanced away toward the white dome of the temple of Bàn Cill, just visible through the trees nearest the garden. “I don’t think Ceanndraoi Greum cares much for me as a result. The Red-Hand isn’t a bad man, O
rla, but he’s a proud and stubborn one. Those are qualities he shared with Voada, though I don’t think either one could have admitted it.”
“He didn’t request that you come here? He didn’t say anything about the Moonshadow’s anamacha?” Are you the one Greum wants to take the Moonshadow?
If Magaidh could hear the unspoken accusation in Orla’s voice, she gave no indication, only another shake of her head. “I know that the Moonshadow is yours now; I can feel them next to you—the same raw power that surrounded Voada.” At Orla’s side, Sorcha shivered at that and moved away a little, as if to give the anamacha room to sit. “I have something to give you,” Magaidh continued. “Here.” She untied a small leather pouch from the belt of her dress and handed it to Orla.
Orla pulled at the drawstring of the pouch and turned it over. A silver chain poured out of the pouch; on the chain was a silver oak leaf, the twin of the ornament she wore around her own neck. Orla gasped, her eyes suddenly full of unbidden tears.
“Your mother died in my arms,” Magaidh said to Orla. “Before the Moonshadow’s anamacha took her soul, she asked me to find you and to give you this. I’m glad I’m finally able to fulfill her last wish.”
Orla closed her fingers around the pendant so tightly that she felt the points of the oak leaf pressing into her palm. “Thank you, Draoi Magaidh,” she managed to say through the threatening tears. “And I would love to talk with you more about my mother.”
A Rising Moon Page 8