“I’m still ceanndraoi,” Greum said. “You can’t possibly know what Savas intends. He could as easily be sailing the two ships down to Gediz, or entirely around Albann Deas back to Savur. His army could be anywhere. And until we know where Savas is, I see no reason for us to move.”
“For once I agree with the ceanndraoi,” Eideard said, “especially when a prize sits there below, ripe for the taking.”
“Muras is hardly a prize worth taking,” Greum answered, pointing down toward the town. “And we will ignore it.” He swept his robes around him, struck his cane on the stones of the bluff, and stalked away back toward the camp. Ceiteag and most of the other draoi followed. The warriors looked to Eideard.
Eideard hadn’t moved. His gaze remained on Orla, his head slightly cocked as if waiting for her to speak. “I know Savas,” she told him. “I know him because my mam knew him and she’s here in my anamacha, and I know him because I’ve spoken to him myself.”
Eideard nodded. “I understand why you would believe that. But if the Mundoa are, as you say, moving toward the mouth of the Meadham, then my scouts should know within a day. We can afford to wait one more day to know which one of the three of us has guessed correctly.”
“I hope you’re right,” Orla told him. “I just hope we don’t regret not having that day.”
He continued to stare at her. “Then become ceanndraoi, as you should be,” he told her. “Then you can give us the order to leave, and I will obey it.”
Orla moved her arm as if to wave away the anamacha, and pain shot through her shoulder at the movement. Her whole body was throbbing; she found herself wanting another infusion of the archiater’s herbs. As soon as we get back to the tent, I’ll have Sorcha make some . . . “I can’t,” she said, as much to the Moonshadow as Eideard, Magaidh, and Sorcha. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough. And I don’t know if it’s what I want.”
“Then we wait,” Eideard told her. “For a day, at least.”
* * *
Altan had to shade his eyes as he gazed out over the widening river toward the estuary of the Meadham. He thought he could glimpse the flat horizon of the Storm Sea in the hazy distance, with the sun just beginning to touch the ocean through a screen of dark clouds from a storm well out over the water. There were gulls flanking the ship, banking on a wind that already smelled of brine and kelp. The tide was running out, and the ship’s prow carved twin white trails in the water under the bellying sail. The officers of the ships called out orders to the sailors, who scurried to respond.
The only other boats they’d seen on the water had been the small fishing boats called currachs, rowed by two to eight men and favored by the Cateni. The fishermen had stared at Altan’s pair of much-more-massive vessels with their masts and sails, but no more. Beyond the single ship that accompanied them, Altan had seen no other sails as yet, but he hoped to do so soon. “Perhaps tomorrow,” he said aloud, which caused Tolga, leaning over the ship’s rail, to glance at Altan.
“Sir?” he asked. Tolga’s face was pale, and he wiped at his mouth, spitting once over the side. “Ships are an abomination,” Tolga said. “People were never meant to leave solid land. Have you been below decks in the men’s sleeping compartment, Commander? The smell there is vile beyond description.”
“Everyone’s sickness will pass, Tolga. I promise.”
“It isn’t fair that you don’t feel it.”
Altan chuckled at that. “Fair or not, if all goes well, we’ll all be back on land again in a few days, and we’ll have more to worry about than our stomachs. There are ships coming from Gediz to meet our cohorts at the coast, and the emperor’s troop ships should also have made the trip around Albann Deas by now. If the One-God wills it, we should have a proper fleet with which to attack Onglse.”
“While the Cateni will be gnawing away at poor worthless Muras.”
Altan shrugged at that. At this point, none of his plans had been achieved. It was as if the One-God were deliberately trying to stymie him. Did I misjudge Greum? Has the Red-Hand decided that gaining the Moonshadow has changed everything? Or is it because Iosa’s become the ceannàrd? “Perhaps. Or perhaps not. It depends on the ceanndraoi and ceannàrd.” And on whether they listen to Orla Moonshadow. The waking dream with Orla still haunted him. Was she going to be another incarnation of her mother? Or worse? Voada had nearly brought the Mundoa to their knees. But she’s not her mam. Not yet, anyway . . .
Altan shook away the thoughts. He heard Tolga retch again and hurriedly lean over the rail to dry heave. Tolga spat and wiped at his mouth again. “The Voice of Muras wasn’t happy with your leaving,” Tolga said when he’d recovered. “I’m sure he’ll complain to the Great-Voice.”
“Let him,” Altan replied. “He didn’t want us to stay, and he didn’t want us to leave. Either way the man was doomed to be unhappy. If he’s intelligent enough to read the cards, he’ll be taking his family on a trip to see Trusa. And if he’s not, then he deserves his unhappiness. However, the Great-Voice was emphatic about what he wanted.”
Altan looked again to the west and the estuary. The sun had slipped halfway down the horizon, sending shafts of yellow light through the silhouetted clouds. “You should go see how the horses are faring before the light fails,” he said. “We’ll need them in good shape when we land. Then we’ll take our supper.”
Tolga nodded. “I’ll do that. I suspect the horses are doing better than me. And as to supper, my appetite is gone. You’ll be eating alone, Commander.”
* * *
Orla walked back to the camp between Sorcha and Magaidh. Neither of the women spoke to Orla as she walked, alone with her thoughts and the nagging voices of the anamacha, which remained close to her.
Their voices were contradictory: some of them encouraging, some taunting.
Orla searched for her mam’s voice in the cacophony. She couldn’t distinguish it.
But the strongest voice among them was Leagsaidh Moonshadow’s, and it made itself heard.
“I need to know,” Orla said. “What does it mean to challenge the ceanndraoi for his title? How does a draoi do that?”
“Orla,” Magaidh answered, “you’re weak and hurt, and you’re so young. I’m not sure—”
“Just tell me,” she said.
She thought for a breath that Magaidh was going to remain silent, but the draoi finally spoke. “I’ve never done this, nor did your mam—she didn’t challenge Greum for the title she took; it was given to her by others. But I’m sure someone in your anamacha must have challenged for the title; you should have them tell you.”
“You can’t?”
Magaidh stepped in front of Orla, forcing her and Sorcha to stop. She took Orla’s hands in hers gently. “I won’t, because it’s out of my experience. It’s easy for Ceannàrd Eideard or others who aren’t draoi to tell you to challenge Greum, because they know nothing about the cost and can’t do it themselves. Eideard probably thinks it’s the draoi equivalent of a swordfight. I’ll tell you this much: it’s worse, which is why it’s so rare for a ceanndraoi to actually be challenged and why Greum feels confident that you won’t. Draoi have died in challenge or damaged their minds so severely that they might have preferred death. Do I think you should be ceanndraoi? Aye, in time I think you should. But now? No. But I
won’t stop you from trying if that’s what you want to do, and I’ll help you as much as I can.”
Her fingers pressed Orla’s hands once, then released them. “That decision’s yours alone,” she continued. “It has to be.”
That evening, Sorcha lay cuddled against Orla’s back, her arms around Orla, her body warm and comforting in its solidity. Her lips touched Orla’s neck just below the ear, and her hand brushed Orla’s stiff and damaged hair. From the other side of the tent, Orla could see her anamacha gleaming though it shed no light, faces appearing and vanishing on it like cloud shadows racing on the mountains.
“I don’t want to lose you, Orla,” Sorcha whispered in the darkness. Her breath was sweet. “I couldn’t bear it. I don’t need you to try to be ceanndraoi; I only need you.”
“Even as I look now?” Orla asked her, then stopped. “No, don’t answer. That wasn’t fair of me.” She found Sorcha’s hand, intertwining their fingers.
“I need you as you are, however you are,” Sorcha answered. “And I’ll be here for you whatever you decide.”
“I know that too, and I love you for it. I just . . .” Orla let her voice trail off.
“Just sleep for now. The morning may bring news to help you decide.”
“It might,” Orla agreed, but the thought gave her no comfort. They fell into silence then, and not long after, Orla heard Sorcha’s breath deepen and slow. She lifted Sorcha’s hand from around her waist and slid out from under the blanket around them. She put on robe and sandals, trying not to groan with the effort of the movements, closing her eyes more than once against the painful stretching of healing wounds. She left the tent, the Moonshadow’s anamacha following her as she sought out the meadow just beyond the camp. The sentries only nodded at her as she passed their torches, their faces averted. They said nothing.
In the meadow she opened her arms in invitation to the anamacha, letting it enter her. Magh da Chèo enveloped her in storm as the souls of the dead draoi crowded around her, all of them trying to speak to her at once.
The figure of her mam lifted her arms to the sky of the Otherworld, and lightning flickered down to her as Orla began to shape the spell cage. As before, she found this energy difficult to contain; it kept wanting to slip away from her, and the weaving of the spell cage needed to be tighter and more compact. When she thought it full enough of what her mam drew from Magh da Chèo, she uttered the released words— “Bruidhinn nam fhochair!”—thought of Altan Savas, and found herself . . . elsewhere.
The floor was swaying and rocking in her vision. Looking down, Orla saw her feet alternately slipping through the wooden planks and rising above them. The sight made her momentarily nauseous, and she quickly looked away. I’m on a ship. The room she found herself in was small and cramped, and this time Altan Savas was sleeping alone. There was a small window in the cabin with the shutter open; she went to it and looked out. She could see the headlands of the River Meadham dark against the moon’s glow, the waves of the Storm Sea lashing the rocky cliffs ahead, but what made her stop and gasp was the sight of other ships in the estuary—a double hand of them at least, all flying the imperial banner of Emperor Pashtuk, stooping hawks descending with talons open against a field of blue that looked black in the moonlight. She realized then how wrong they’d all been: ships had been built at both Gediz and Muras, and the building must have started before Savas’ army had left the capital city.
We’re already too late . . .
“Is that what you expected to see, Dream Orla?” she heard Savas say from behind her. She turned to see him sitting up weaponless in his bed, his scarred chest bare. “Have I put a dagger of fear in the ceanndraoi’s heart? I hope so. He deserves it for his betrayal of our compact.”
Orla was glad she couldn’t hear the voices in the Moonshadow respond to that declaration. She also realized what the commander wasn’t saying. “You didn’t need the ships at Muras,” she answered, still looking at the armada on the river. “Ever. You only intended to draw the ceanndraoi’s army as far away from Onglse as possible.”
Savas smiled almost ruefully. He rubbed at his heavily grayed beard. “You’re clever enough, Dream Orla, but you still have it wrong. A shame for the Cateni that Greum Red-Hand shares that quality. Oh, I won’t lie— the draoi destroying all the ships we had ready at Muras was painful. I had promised the Great-Voice that we’d lose only two, at most three. But it was hardly a fatal wound, because it wasn’t my only strategy.”
Orla turned to him, and she saw his eyes narrow as he took in her ravaged, changed features. “And now you go to Onglse?” she asked.
He didn’t answer the question, only asked another. “Is your spell a poor one tonight?” he asked. “Your face looks . . . damaged.”
“That’s none of your concern, Commander,” she told him.
He nodded. “As you say. Let me ask you, then: where are you and your warriors and draoi, Dream Orla? Are you still at Muras?” He clucked his tongue, shaking his head. “We should both be pleased. In the end, that means fewer people, both Mundoa and Cateni, will end up dead.”
“Why should you care? You told me before—you’re just an obedient soldier. Your duty is to kill the enemy.”
“You’re a draoi,” he answered. “In war, killing people is also your duty. But that doesn’t mean either of us has to enjoy that duty when it falls to us. I threw the spear that killed your mother because it was my obligation and because otherwise, she would have killed me. Whether you believe me or not, I took no joy from the deed. She was a worthy adversary, and I respected that. If you and I meet again in battle one day, I’ll feel much the same about Draoi Orla.” In the faint light, she saw a wry smile brush his lips. “Or have things changed more than that? Is it Ceanndraoi Orla now?”
Orla shook her head. “No?” Savas continued. “That’s a shame; Greum Red-Hand hardly does justice to his title. If you were ceanndraoi, then perhaps . . .” He stopped, not finishing whatever thought he had. “As I was saying, should you and I meet in war, I’ll take no pleasure in what happens.” He stopped and gave a quick, sarcastic chuckle. “Especially if I end up being the one lying dead on the field.”
“We will meet, Commander,” Orla said, the words coming to her unbidden. They tasted true even as she spoke them. She felt the spell beginning to fade, the ship’s cabin becoming indistinct and the landscape of the meadow appearing through it. Savas must have noticed a change as well, as he lifted a hand to her in farewell.
“Then I’ll expect to see you one day soon,” he said. “We’ll both sleep as well as we can until then.”
Orla started to reply, but Savas was already gone, a mist scoured away by a wind, and she was sitting again in the meadow alongside the stream. She turned toward the torches of the camp and began walking, the Moonshadow pacing alongside her.
PART THREE
YEAR 25 OF PASHTUK’S REIGN
20
Defending Onglse
ORLA STOOD ON THE BLUFF across from Seal Point, looking across Onglse Strait toward the mainland, hazed by distance and mist even here at the narrowest point. Well to the south, she could just make out the shapes of the Mundoan troop ships anchored near the smaller islands of Eilean Mòr—one of them, undoubtedly, the ship on which she’d met with Savas. Had the weather been kinder, she might have also been able to see the imperial banners that adorned too many of the forts along the stone wall that ringed the island.
Below her on a pebbled, narrow curve of a beach, several currachs were being offloaded of warriors, draoi, chariots, horses, and equipment, having fought the strong tides and currents to
one of the few landing places on Onglse not under control of Savas’ forces. A treacherous journey at the best of times; a hand of currachs had foundered during the multiple crossings, drowning three àrds and as many draoi as well as a hand and three of warhorses. Given their already thin ranks, that was a loss they could hardly afford.
We were all blind, myself as much as anyone. Savas has outmaneuvered us at every turn. By the time we finally moved, we were nearly too late. We may still be too late.
Orla still shivered at the memory of the angry confrontation between Eideard and Greum after she’d returned with the tale of Mundoan ships in the estuary of the River Meadham. She’d thought the two might come to blows as they argued about what the Cateni should do next. She’d been certain Eideard would either draw his sword to kill Greum or that Greum would conjure up a spell and destroy Eideard where he stood. She’d had to put herself between them, scolding them like she’d once scolded Bakir’s children when she was watching them for Azru, threatening to use her own anamacha if she must. “This is exactly what Savas wants to see,” she’d told them, “the two of you at each other’s throats. Onglse is in peril. The clans are in peril. If you want Bàn Cill to fall, then all you need do is stand here and shout accusations at each other instead of acting.”
By the time dawn broke, Greum Red-Hand grudgingly agreed to Eideard’s plan, though Orla found herself wondering why Greum objected to what seemed a reasonable course of action. Eideard sent the àrds—as well as the ceannàrd, each with his chariot carrying one or two of the draoi—racing overland to the coast ahead of the foot soldiers and the camp supply train, there to find boats to take them across the strait to Onglse. They wouldn’t be able to stop the initial invasion—it was already far too late for that—but they’d be able to reinforce the warriors and draoi there. Eideard’s strategy was to employ minimal resistance at first and permit the Mundoa to take the outer defensive ring, pulling most of their warriors and draoi back to the smaller, tighter second ring. Eideard intended to hold the second ring until the rest of the army and draoi arrived with Comhnall Mac Tsagairt.
A Rising Moon Page 23