Eideard looked over his shoulder at her, his face split in a wide smile that accentuated the white battle scars he bore. “It was your spell that turned them, Orla. They felt the Moonshadow’s presence, and they fled.”
Still staring at the carnage below, Orla shook her head.
“Tha, you’re right,” Eideard answered; unheard by anyone but Orla, those in her anamacha added their agreement. “No one could have done what you just did. Not even Greum Red-Hand.” He paused. “Ceanndraoi,” he added.
21
The Taste of Defeat
“HOW MANY DID WE LOSE?” Altan asked his two sub-commanders. He was seated at a scarred and battered table in the room he’d commandeered in the last tower they’d taken in the coastal ring. Like most of the fortifications along the coastal wall, it had been poorly defended. The few warriors and draoi holding it had fled toward the center of the island after only a token resistance, and the tower had become the base of operations for their push toward the inner defenses of the island.
Now Ilkur and Musa stood before Altan with their krug armor still muddy and filthy, their hair sweat-matted and disheveled. Altan gestured for the two men to take chairs and sit; Ilkur was still limping from the injuries he’d sustained in the battle at Muras.
“By our count, we lost dört yüz and more,” Musa answered: four hundred. “That’s just the count of the dead. The injured total nearly double that, some of whom will also die while many will never be fit for battle again. The Cateni arrows and spells were partially responsible, but most of the dead and injured came from being mired in the accursed bog the Cateni created and from that terrible spell from the draoi witch.”
“Too many.” Altan shook his head, but nothing could drive out the memory of that final explosion and the sight of well-trained soldiers running away in sheer terror. “This is my fault,” he told them, knowing they wouldn’t understand just how true that was. This wasn’t what Greum and I agreed to. This wasn’t the way the battle was supposed to end. Now there’s only one path, and that’s to do what the Great-Voice and Emperor ordered me to do in the first place. “We knew the Moonshadow was here, but after how easy it was to take the outer defenses, even with the draoi they had . . .”
“You couldn’t have known, Commander,” Musa said. “None of us could. We all believed an open frontal assault would prevail again.”
“We fought the Moonshadow with Voada, and she eventually fell,” Ilkur added. “But this . . . Voada never showed anything like what we just witnessed. The daughter’s more dangerous than her mother.”
“We all underestimated her,” Altan agreed, “but I’m ultimately responsible. Onglse needs to fall and fall soon, and neither the Great-Voice nor the Emperor are likely to care what our excuses might be.” Or my head will pay for that failure, and both of yours might roll as well for being associated with me. Altan didn’t need to voice that addendum aloud; they all knew it.
“Pushing troops forward isn’t going to work against that second ring. Even without the damned Moonshadow, we’d have lost too many soldiers in the bog they’d prepared for us. We need to take out as many of the towers and as much of the wall as we can, along with their warriors and draoi, before we commit good men forward again. Ilkur, set the carpenters to preparing bridges and ladders; you know what we need. Tell them to scavenge wood from the ships if they need to—if we fall here, we won’t be needing them anyway. Musa, tell the engineers that we must have ballistae capable of casting stone and fire over two of these ridges, and I want them tomorrow. Voada was able to throw spells a long distance, so we’ll have to assume Orla can do the same or worse, but none of the other draoi can match that. They might be able to make us miserable with rain and storms, but we’ll do the same in return with boulders and flaming pitch. A few days of that and we’ll have worn them down enough to try again. All right—the two of you know what you need to do, and I have a report to write that Great-Voice Utka and the Emperor are not going to enjoy in the slightest when it reaches them. Dismissed. Clean yourselves up and get some food.”
Musa and Ilkur stood, clasped fists to chests as they bowed their heads, and left Altan’s chamber. Altan put his elbows on the table, kneading his forehead with knobbed fingers. The beginnings of a headache pounded in his temples. Greum promised me they would retreat again as soon as we reached the wall. We should have had more time—and we would have without Orla. Everything has changed with her presence. . . .
Greum Red-Hand wouldn’t have sent chariots and draoi hurrying to the coast to Onglse’s succor. No—Greum was supposed to have taken the lure of Muras, giving Altan an excuse to return to the mainland, giving him the opportunity for the sacrifice he was willing to make for the good of the empire and his men. But now . . .
Altan’s scribe knocked a few moments later, bringing in ink and parchment and seating himself across the table from Altan. “Are you ready, sir? If not, I can come back later.”
Altan rubbed his temples, frowning. “No,” he said. “We’ll do this now. The report needs to be sent to Emperor Pashtuk and Great-Voice Utka . . .”
* * *
The tower’s interior courtyard as well as the grounds around it had been converted into the archiaters’ facility. Altan, accompanied by Musa and Ilkur (with their chariot drivers, including Tolga, just behind), walked among the cots and tented areas in the dying light of the day, stopping to speak for a moment to each of the wounded soldiers.
“I will tell the Great-Voice himself how well you fought . . . Your efforts and your sacrifice weren’t in vain . . . Your bravery didn’t go unnoticed . . . The archiaters will bring you back to full health . . . Those towers in the distance will be ours soon, you’ll see . . . Heal quickly; we need you . . .”
The platitudes and compliments flowed from Altan’s lips; he’d said them too often over the years in victory as well as in defeat, but they were never easy. He looked his soldiers directly in the eyes as he spoke. He grasped their hands, patted their shoulders. He saw their pain, saw injuries that he knew would likely end their lives in days or moons, or leave them crippled forever. He also saw how they responded to his words with a resurgence of animation in their faces, a look of mingled hope and belief.
Their pain is my fault. All of it is my fault. He hated their admiration and faith when he had none to give himself.
It was several turns of the glass before he was finished, drained and exhausted. Outside the archiaters’ makeshift hospital, the night and the stars were banished by the glare of a trio of gigantic pyres, as the dead were first prayed over, then cremated. The pyres had been erected on a hillside overlooking Onglse Strait, but the wind sent the smell of smoke and charred flesh back to them. Altan and the others stared at the fires, unmoving, as whirling towers of glowing sparks spewed into the sky from each of them. Finally, as the pyres collapsed, Altan embraced Musa and Ilkur, thanked them for being with him, and went to the small bedroom of his quarters.
He undressed and waited for the soft knock he knew would come. When it did, he opened the door slightly and allowed Tolga to slide in. They embraced and kissed quickly, then Altan stepped away from his lover.
“Seeing the men, the pyres . . .” Altan said, shaking his head. “So many hurt, and so many to be burned.”
“Your men all know you won’t waste their lives unnecessarily,” Tolga said. “You had to order the retreat or three times as many might have died, with no guarantee that we’d have taken the tower. You did what you had to do.”
“Did I? You don’t know everything, Tolga.” And I can’t tell you. “What I had to do was break the second wall ring so we could get to Bàn Cill. That’s what I had to do. I didn’t succeed in that, and despite what I told the men,
I wasted lives in the attempt. The Moonshadow . . . I should have known. We saw the currachs crossing the strait in the north; we—no, I—didn’t understand what that meant.” And I should have known. Word should have come to me, but it didn’t.
“We all believed it was the northern clans sending over what few warriors they could spare. That’s what the injured warrior we found told us.”
Altan scoffed. “A dying old warrior who knew his time was done? That’s what the man was ordered to tell us before he died. I should have suspected the truth even if I didn’t know, and I should have prepared for the advance as if those suspicions were truth.” Altan’s hands were waving in self-disgust, and Tolga grabbed them. When Altan scowled in irritation, Tolga released his wrists, holding up his own hands and stepping back.
“Stop this,” Tolga said. “Stop it now.”
“Tolga! You dare—”
“Dare what? To speak to you not as soldier to commander but as a lover? A friend? Or are you angry because I’m telling you what you already know? Altan, you can’t blame yourself.”
Altan wanted to rage at Tolga, to order him away, but he closed his eyes and took a long breath. He loves you, and if you don’t love him the same way, you at least consider him a friend. So be that to him. He forced his voice to quiet, though he continued to protest. “Who else should I blame? You? Ilkur? Musa? Great-Voice Utka? Emperor Pashtuk?” The blame is largely Ceanndraoi Greum’s. It must be. But he couldn’t say that. That was something he couldn’t share with Tolga.
“Fine. Blame yourself if you want. Or blame the Pale Ones who serve the One-God for not stepping in. It doesn’t matter. ‘The past is done and can’t be changed; all that matters is the future.’ Isn’t that what you’ve always told me a good officer needs to remember?”
Altan managed a tight smile at that. “So you’re going to throw my own words back at me?”
“You want more? I’ve been listening to your conversations with your officers for several years now. I have a full quiver of your advice just waiting to be used. Why, here’s another—”
Altan lifted his hand. “Spare me. I’ve heard enough. You’re right, Tolga. What matters is the future. I won’t underestimate the Cateni or Orla Moonshadow again.”
Or trust the Red-Hand’s word again. I especially won’t do that.
22
Ceanndraoi
GREUM WASN’T PRESENT WHEN Eideard and Orla returned to the courtyard to the cheers of the Cateni. Nor was Ceiteag. Orla could see neither of their faces among the archers, warriors, and draoi arrayed along the ramparts, applauding and shouting at their routing of the Mundoan attack. Eideard noticed as well; he leaned close to Orla. “Greum Red-Hand saw what everyone else saw. He can feel the silver torc slipping from his neck.”
“I’m not challenging him, Ceannàrd.”
Eideard’s face twisted; she wasn’t sure if the expression was a smile or something else. “After today, I’m not certain you have a choice.”
Their chariot was swarmed by cheering people as Tadgh guided the horses into the courtyard and the tower’s gates swung shut behind them. The noise was tremendous; Orla caught snatches of praise from hundreds of open mouths around her, and she heard the title “Ceanndraoi” shouted toward her more than once. She, Tadgh, and Eideard were lifted from the chariot and carried above the crowd. Hands raised them up to a balcony on the inner wall of the courtyard—the balcony outside the rooms that were currently the ceannàrd’s, Orla noted. The adjoining balcony was that of the ceanndraoi’s quarters. The cheers continued unabated until Eideard lifted his arms. His voice rang from the walls of the courtyard.
“We have gained a powerful victory here.” He paused while the cheers rose again, waiting until they faded once more. “But let’s not mistake it for more than it is, because I know Commander Savas won’t. This was simply one small battle. The war for Onglse has just begun in earnest; there will be many more battles to come, and their outcomes are in the hands of Elia, the bravery of our warriors, and the skill of our draoi. For now, celebrate and rejoice, but don’t forget that while the Mundoa lost far more lives than we did, we still paid a high price in Cateni lives. Honor the memories of those who fell here. Pray that their souls find Tirnanog as we burn their empty bodies tonight; the menachs will be watching for them.” He hesitated, looking out over those in front of him. “And remember this also: the Moonshadow has returned to us, and Orla Paorach wields her anamacha as well or better than Voada did.” Orla grasped Eideard’s arm, but he ignored her. “Without her, we might still be fighting this battle, and many more Cateni lives would have been lost.”
With that the cheering erupted again, and this time the chant arose: “Ceanndraoi! Ceanndraoi! Ceanndraoi!”
“Do you hear, Orla?” Eideard shouted over the din. “They already know who you are and who you should be.”
Orla shook her head in denial, but the chant continued. She didn’t know where Greum Red-Hand might be or what he was thinking, but she knew that wherever he was, he also heard the chanting.
* * *
Orla was washing herself in her chamber, her bog dress down around her waist, when a familiar voice spoke behind her. “Draoi Orla.” Ceiteag. Covering her breasts with a hand and arm, Orla turned to see the older woman standing near the door. “He wants to see you,” Ceiteag said.
She didn’t need to add who “he” was. “Why?” Orla responded.
Ceiteag only sniffed at that. “Are you coming, girl, or do you want me to tell the ceanndraoi you refuse?”
“I’m coming. Just let me dress . . .”
Ceiteag didn’t move, watching without speaking as Orla dried herself and pulled up the top of her bog dress, tying it again around her neck. She adjusted her torc and the twin silver oak leaf pendants she wore. Ceiteag opened the door as Orla approached, letting her pass, her hollow, ancient eyes watching as the Moonshadow’s anamacha followed her. The narrow stone hallway was busy and crowded, but everyone stood aside to let the two pass. Whispers followed them.
“You shouldn’t have allowed them to call you ceanndraoi,” Ceiteag said as they walked down the corridor toward the ceanndraoi’s quarters.
“I didn’t ask for that, and I certainly didn’t encourage them,” Orla responded, irritated by the statement. “And exactly how was I to stop them? What would you have had me do?”
“You don’t know what Ceanndraoi Greum has tried to do for the Cateni. There can’t be two ceanndraoi,” Ceiteag answered. “You know that.”
“There were two ceanndraoi after Mam left Onglse with Maol Iosa,” Orla told her, knowing the statement would only antagonize Ceiteag, but she was too tired and exhausted to care, and she still needed to attend the lighting of the pyres before she could rest. Eideard had insisted she must come, and she had agreed—it was her insistence that they quickly return to Onglse, after all, that had led those warriors to their deaths. The least she could do was to honor their sacrifice.
“I warned you that the Moonshadow was dangerous,” Ceiteag snapped. “I warned your mam as well, and she ignored me. The Moonshadow drove her mad. Look what it’s already done to you. Why, your poor face—” For a moment, Orla thought she saw sympathy in those eyes, then Ceiteag’s wrinkled mouth snapped shut, her cheeks collapsing. “We’re here,” she said, stopping at the door painted with the image of a silver torc. She knocked; they heard Greum call for them to enter. Ceiteag opened the door. “Draoi Orla is here, Ceanndraoi,” she said, then stepped aside to let Orla enter the room. Ceiteag didn’t follow; she shut the door behind Orla.
Greum was standing with his hands clasped behind his back, his cane dangling behind like a wooden tail. He gazed out through the slatted doors of the balcony toward the courtyard where only a few stripes ago Eideard and Orla had been cheered; the last rays of the setting sun striped his form with gold light. Greum turned at the sound of the door closing, bringing his hands fo
rward and supporting himself on the cane. Orla thought his black hair had grayed significantly since Muras. He scowled at her through his beard, though his gaze quickly left her face, straying somewhere past her.
“There can’t be two ceanndraoi, Draoi Orla.”
“I’ve heard that said already today. You say it like it’s simply impossible, and we both know that’s a lie.”
His face soured even further at her statement. His eyes flicked back to her and away again. “Your mam falsely claimed the title after she abandoned us at Onglse. She heard people calling her ceanndraoi, and even though I was still ceanndraoi, she allowed them to call her by my title and treat her as if she were actually ceanndraoi. She severed and diluted the authority of the ceanndraoi so that no one knew whom they should follow.”
Orla felt the brush of her anamacha against her side, and she stepped away, not wanting to hear the voices. “Mam didn’t abandon Onglse,” she told Greum. “She saved Onglse from falling by taking an army south so that Savas had to break off his invasion.”
“No, no, no!” Greum shouted, banging his cane on the floor in emphasis with each denial. “We would have held Onglse if she had listened to me, if she’d stayed, if she hadn’t seduced Iosa and taken him with her. I would have won.”
Perhaps it was her exhaustion from the day and everything that had happened. Perhaps it was Greum’s hubris and his twisting of the truth that she knew from her mam and Magaidh. Perhaps it was because he avoided looking directly at her face. Perhaps it was because she knew that the dead draoi inside the Moonshadow would be howling in outrage at hearing Greum’s statements. Perhaps it was knowing that she still had much to do before she could afford to sleep.
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