A Rising Moon

by Stephen Leigh

  “I’ll make sure the bridge stands, Commander, for as long as I possibly can.”

  “Do that,” Altan told him, clapping the man on the shoulder. “In the meantime, I’m going to have the chariots, the mounted troops, the archers, and infantry cross. We’ll make our evening’s camp on the other side rather than waiting here.” With that, Altan splashed through the puddles and mud back to the road where Tolga waited with his chariot and climbed in. “Back to the line,” he said to Tolga. “We’ll lead everyone across.”

  * * *

  Altan squinted against the searing light. “By the emperor’s hairy balls,” he growled sleepily, “is that actually the sun?”

  “It is,” Tolga answered. His body was a black shape against the glare coming from the tent flaps. “The rain stopped during the night, too. It’s a clear dawn. The camp’s still a swamp, though.”

  Altan yawned and stretched. “Doesn’t matter. We can move on to Trusa. Marching in sunlight will feel like a reprieve after all the wet and gloom. Tell Musa, Ilkur, and the other sub-commanders to get their men ready to move on, then get my chariot ready. Any news on the supply train?”

  “They’re still at least a day behind, but the bridge at Big Muddy is still holding. Hopefully they’ll be able to cross and won’t be stranded on the other side.”

  “That’s even better news,” Altan grunted. “Let me get dressed, then.”

  “I could help,” Tolga said, smiling. “If you wish, Commander.”

  Altan laughed. “Only if you promise that you’ll help me dress rather than undress. I intend to get to Trusa by day’s end.”

  “I won’t delay you too long, Commander. I promise.” Tolga gestured to the light behind him. “But we really should let the sun dry off the road a bit first, don’t you think?”

  “You’re becoming a bad influence, Tolga.”

  “I merely want my commander to be happy,” Tolga answered.

  “Then come here,” Altan said with a low growl. “We need to be quick . . .”

  12

  A Game of Fidhcheall

  GREUM RED-HAND CALLED THE DRAOI and àrds together two days after the initial meeting. Orla entered alongside Magaidh. The morning light slanted in through the windows, pouring down on a fidhcheall board and figures set on a table between Ceanndraoi Greum and Ceannàrd Mac Tsagairt. Both men arose as the draoi and àrds slowly filed into the hall.

  Greum gestured toward the board. “The pieces have begun to fall into place,” he said, looking at all who’d entered. “We’ve had word from several dependable sources that Commander Savas is moving slowly north with his army, though the weather has been against him. He should be in Trusa by now. Our contacts among the Cateni conscripts inform us that the army is ultimately heading toward Onglse. The ceannàrd and I believe we should meet them long before that happens. They also say that the plan is to move from Trusa toward Muras via the Great North Road, where Savas intends to split the army. The main assault force will ship down the Meadham and up the coast; the rest will cross the Meadham and travel overland toward the coast and set up encampments there in order to stop Onglse from receiving reinforcements from the clans. We’ve seen furious shipbuilding going on in Muras, so we expect our information is correct.”

  “That could simply be a feint,” Àrd Eideard Iosa interjected. He’d returned to Onglse upon hearing that Orla and the Moonshadow’s anamacha would be part of the ceanndraoi’s army. He swept an arm through the air for emphasis. His long hair was falling out of the ties of his braid, and red-brown strands whipped over the scars on his face. “They could still take the Stormwind Road from Trusa to Gediz and board ships there to Onglse. That’s how Savas returned from Onglse the last time. If we bring our army to Muras and find that Savas has gone west, Onglse would be entirely open to them until we could retreat back to the island. They’d be there before we could return.”

  “But if that happens,” Magaidh’s husband answered, “we could push south, as Voada did. Savas would be forced to abandon the attack on Onglse once again.”

  Eideard gave a scoffing laugh. “We also know Great-Voice Utka hasn’t made the same mistake as his predecessor and left the south open to invasion; the emperor sent several troop ships, and not all of them are heading north. If we push into Albann Deas, there will still be an army there defending it—a smaller one, admittedly, but dangerous. We won’t be sacking Trusa or Savur while Commander Savas takes Onglse, as Voada Moonshadow did. We’d be walking into a trap with Mundoan troops at our front and Savas ready to come at us from the rear once he’s burned Bàn Cill to the ground. There’d be nothing but ashes left where we’re standing right now.” He looked directly at Orla then, the challenge in his stare causing her to take a step back. “Since she holds the Moonshadow, what does Draoi Orla believe is the right strategy?”

  Orla expected Greum Red-Hand to interrupt or Ceannàrd Mac Tsagairt to speak. Neither did. The silence in the room made the air feel thick and heavy, and Orla found herself wanting to retreat. Nearly all the àrds and draoi in the room were staring at her. She could feel Magaidh’s supportive warmth at her right side, and on the left . . .

  The cold of her anamacha pressed into her skin, and she heard their massed and contradictory voices overlay the quiet of the hall.

  She also felt a presence rising against the voices, and that one’s voice was stronger than any of the rest.

  Orla thought back to her, a complex surge of emotions accompanying the word: sadness at the memory of her loss; the love for her mother that she’d never lost; joy at being able to speak to her again. And fear—for Orla felt another darker and stronger presence lurking behind Voada, and she knew that was the Moonshadow herself.

  The voice was not just her mother’s; Orla could feel another voice reverberating in the single word as the Moonshadow pressed closer to her.

  A vista opened before Orla, as if she were a hawk banking in the wind high above the world. She could feel cold air moving around her. The movement and the height made her momentarily dizzy, but she fought the nausea, narrowing her eyes. Below she glimpsed a river glinting in failing sunlight, and on its banks sat a massive walled city. Around and through the city, an army moved: a plague of armored insects crossing the bridge that spanned the wide river, moving through the city’s great lanes, and exiting through the gates on the far side. The army crawled forward on the road leading away from the city, spilling out well to either side, the shapes of men, horses, war chariots, and wagons spreading long, dark shadows across the land at their right hands. Look at the shadows, the anamacha’s voices had told her—her mother’s voice strongest among them—and Orla suddenly realized what they had meant.

  A sun setting in the west, the shadows racing eastward away from them . . .

  “Savas’ army is marching north,” Orla said aloud, and with the words the vision faded. Orla blinked, the cold presence of the anamacha leaving her. “Not west. North. Ceanndraoi Greum is correct. They’re heading for Muras.”

  * * *

  Orla and Sorcha were eating dinner in Orla’s rooms when someone knocked urgently on the door: three hard, demanding raps. Sorcha’s eyebrows lifted, and Orla shrugged. Sorcha pushed her chair back from the table and went to the door, opening it a crack to peer out. “Àrd Iosa,” Orla heard Sorcha say. The woman glanced back at Orla, who nodded. Sorcha opened the door fully. “Please come in. Draoi Paorach is at dinner at the moment, but . . .”

  Eideard said nothing. He stalked into the room like a thundercloud pushed by a harsh wind, a scowl on his face. His gaze found Orla’s, and the scowl deepened. “Was your intention to humble me before the ceanndr
aoi and ceannàrd? Are you now allied with them? Is that the game you’re playing?”

  Orla set down her spoon. She gestured to the chair across from her. “Are you hungry, Àrd Iosa? Sorcha, would you get a plate and a knife for our guest?”

  Eideard sniffed. “I’m not hungry. I asked you a question.”

  “You may not be hungry, but I am. Sit. Have some mulled wine, if nothing else, and we can talk.” When Eideard still didn’t move, Orla gestured again at the chair. “Please, Àrd. Sit.”

  The scowl deepened yet further, but Eideard took two quick strides to the table and slid into the offered seat. Sorcha padded to the cupboard to place a mug in front of him, then curled her fingers around the handle of the clay pot on the table and poured steaming spiced wine into the mug. Placing it down again, she slid a crock with a spindle toward him. “Honey?” she asked. Eideard didn’t answer. Sorcha gave Orla a glance and went silently into the next room, leaving the two alone, though she didn’t shut the door.

  Eideard was glaring at Orla, his dark eyes like black stones glittering in twin caves. Orla forced herself to hold his gaze, afraid that he’d think her weak if she looked away. The tableau held for several breaths, then Orla broke off a small piece of bread and dipped it into the stew in the bowl before her. She chewed the bread and swallowed before she answered. “I simply told the ceanndraoi and ceannàrd what I saw in the vision the Moonshadow and my mam gave me. In it, I saw Savas’ army going north to Muras. If I’d seen them going west, I would have told them that, and I would have told them that their strategy was flawed. But that’s not what I saw.”

  “So now you’re an expert on military strategy?”

  “Hardly,” she told him, an anger flaring in her that she wasn’t entirely able to dampen. She wished Magaidh were here; she would know what to say and how to handle the àrd’s questions, but Magaidh was in her own rooms. What would my mam say? How would she respond? Orla tried to imagine her mother’s voice emerging from her own mouth. “But I’m not as stupid as you seem to think I am either.”

  The words came out more sharply than Orla might have spoken on her own, and the rebuke caused the scowl on the man’s scarred face to vanish for a moment. Orla saw his shoulders drop slightly. “I apologize, Draoi Orla. I never meant to imply that. It’s just . . .” His hand rose, palm upturned, then dropped again. “The ceannàrd means well, but he’s old and too tied to Ceanndraoi Greum, and everyone has seen how you and his wife have become close. As for the ceanndraoi . . . well, I assume my opinion’s obvious enough to you, and I suspect it’s one we share—at least I thought so until this morning.”

  “I’m not sure what you want me to say, Àrd Iosa, or why you’re here. You’re right—Ceanndraoi Greum and I are hardly friends. Even though he was my teacher in the arts of the draoi until Draoi Magaidh came, he doesn’t seem to like me. He knew my mother and the anamacha that’s chosen me, and I suspect that’s why.” With that, she saw Eideard’s gaze travel the room as if searching for the Moonshadow, though, like Sorcha, he obviously couldn’t see the anamacha standing just behind Orla’s chair. Orla brought his gaze back to her as she picked up her spoon, twirling the wooden utensil in her fingers. “Because of my mother, he has his reasons to distrust me, I suppose. No, I don’t like the ceanndraoi or even particularly trust him. But I still have to respect him.”

  “Enough that you’ll be silent if you disagree with him?”

  Orla gave a quick exhalation of a laugh at that. “I won’t be silent. But he knows war far better than I do, and I won’t oppose his strategies merely because I don’t like the man.” She stared at Eideard across the small table. “Is that what you’re doing, Àrd?”

  His scowl returned for a moment, then the lines of his face eased, and he suddenly chuckled. “That’s a fair question, I suppose. And maybe there’s a grain of truth in it.”

  “I think more a sackful than a grain,” Orla told him. “But you were right to say that taking our army to Muras would be a terrible mistake if Savas instead went west. It would be, but I tell you I saw Savas’ army on the northern road toward Muras.”

  “And you can trust that vision?”

  Orla felt the anamacha touch her back like a cold northern winter breeze and heard the whispers of their voices. “The vision came from my mam; she wouldn’t lie to me.”

  Again Eideard’s gaze traveled the room as if searching for the unseen. He shook his head.

  “Just because you can’t see them doesn’t mean they’re not there,” Orla told him.

  “Maol Iosa could see the taibhse, I was always told.” whispered her mother’s voice at that statement. Eideard shrugged. “I’m blind and deaf to all the ghosts around us.”

  “Consider yourself lucky, Àrd Iosa,” Orla answered. “Then they can’t insist that you help do their bidding. Sometimes I think it’s more curse than blessing.”

  “They say trying to contain and use the Moonshadow—” Eideard began, then stopped.

  “Drove my mother mad?” Orla finished for him. “There’s often truth buried in gossip. Is that what worries you? Do I appear mad to you?”

  “No,” Eideard answered, his voice flat and inflectionless. “Just terribly young and naïve.”

  Her mother’s voice crooned to her amid the others in the anamacha. “I won’t argue with you,” Orla said. “What is it you want from me, Àrd Eideard? Surely you didn’t just come here to berate a terribly young and naïve draoi for stopping you from making a terrible fool of yourself.”

  “A terrible—” he started to say before his lips pressed together in the familiar scowl. “Fair enough,” he said. “Yes, I was angry. I thought . . . I was certain that Savas would avoid Muras.”

  “Because it’s what you would do if you were him?” Orla asked with mock innocence. She could hear the massed laughter from her anamacha at that jibe. Eideard drew in his breath, cocking his head to one side. She thought he was going to shout, but instead, surprising her, he laughed.

  “Tha!” he exclaimed. Yes! “You understand me all too well, Draoi Orla. Yes, I would do exactly that, and not taking his army west as I would have done is a mistake, as Savas will now learn. Because of you.” He nodded to her.

  Orla heard her mother whisper among the other voices. Another voice seemed to join that of her mother, a deeper and stronger one.

  “I don’t need a ceannàrd,” Orla said aloud, and Eideard’s eyes narrowed.

  “You will one day,” he told her. “You see, there are things that I know without having the Moonshadow whisper them to me. One of those is that you’re right not to trust the Red-Hand. I’m sorry for disturbing you, Draoi Orla, and for doubting you and thinking you merely the ceanndraoi’s lackey. That’s a mistake that I won’t make again.” Eideard inclined his head to Orla. “My uncle and your mother found each other good partners in war, if nothing else. Perhaps we were destined to be together in the same way.” He didn’t wait for an answer—not that Orla could formulate one for that statement—but pushed his chair back from the table, rose, and left her quarters. The door closed softly behind him.

  When Eideard left, Sorcha emerged from the other room, softly applauding. “There are more important things to learn about than simply being a draoi, Orla,” she said. “I think you’ve begun to learn those lessons just as well as those Magaidh’s been teaching you.”

  Orla could only shake her head at that. “I hope you’re right, Sorcha.”

  * * *

  “Is there anything you need, Orla?” Sorcha asked from the door of Orla’s bedchamber. “If not, then I’ll retire to my ow
n chamber . . .”

  “Stay,” Orla told her. “I’m not tired yet.” She patted the quilt that covered her. “Sit here for a bit and talk to me.”

  Sorcha hesitated, then moved to the bed and sat. “What do you want to talk about?”

  Orla wasn’t sure herself; it really wasn’t talk she wanted, just the comfort of Sorcha’s presence. “I don’t know. What do you think of Eideard?”

  Sorcha pressed her lips together, looking at the shuttered window of the chamber before answering. “I think he’s arrogant, but an àrd has to be strong-willed and sure of himself if he wants to survive. I hear that he’s had several proposals from other àrds trying to marry him to their daughters or sisters, but so far he hasn’t accepted any of them. He’ll be a good match for the right person.” Sorcha’s gaze came back to Orla. “A good match for a strong draoi, for instance.”

  Orla was already shaking her head. “Me, you mean? No, that’s never going to happen. After Bakir . . . well, you know.”

  Sorcha looked toward the closed window again, her back to Orla. “Still, why not? Look at Magaidh and Comhnall. Not every man is like Bakir.”

  “I know, but . . .” Orla reached out, putting her hand on Sorcha’s back and letting her fingers trail down the woman’s spine. She felt Sorcha shiver as her hand dropped away. Sorcha turned so that she was looking at Orla again.

  “I should go,” Sorcha said, but she made no move to leave.

  “You told me Alim was never the person you wanted to share a life with,” Orla said. “But you said that with others you wouldn’t name . . . Who were those others, Sorcha? Why can’t you name them?”

  “Don’t, Orla,” Sorcha said. “Please.”

  “I think I know who they were, Sorcha, and it doesn’t matter to me. I understand.”

  She saw Sorcha’s hand start to move on the quilt, and she slid her own hand toward it until their fingers interlaced.