“Ceannàrd,” he said, “I am Sub-Commander Musa. Commander Savas requests that we be allowed to remove our dead from the field so they can be given honorable treatment.”
Eideard nodded at that. “We Cateni understand that. Tell Commander Savas that he may do so as long as none of your people are armed or wearing armor.”
“I’ll make certain of it, and we thank you, Ceannàrd.” He started to climb back into the chariot, but Orla stepped forward and called to him.
“Sub-Commander, tell Commander Savas that the ceannàrd and I would like to meet with him tomorrow.” Both Eideard’s and Musa’s heads swiveled to stare at Orla: Musa with an appraising look, as if he were trying to gauge how a haggard and disfigured young woman had managed to cause their earlier retreat, Eideard simply appeared startled and surprised. “No more than two hands of people for each of us, and no weapons,” she said. “I’ll have a pavilion set up on the ridge between us. We need to talk.”
“The ceanndraoi is a weapon,” Musa commented. “A rather effective one.”
“Your commander knows he can trust my word,” Orla answered. “Just tell him what I’ve said.”
Musa glanced quickly at Eideard, as if waiting for him to comment, then swung himself up into the chariot. “As you wish, Ceanndraoi,” he told Orla. “I’ll return with his answer.”
As Musa rode away, Eideard turned swiftly to Orla. “Why?” he asked. “Why treat the man we just defeated as an equal? And why weren’t we consulted about that decision?” He swept his hand around to encompass the others in the group.
“Would you have agreed to it if I’d asked, Eideard?”
“No, which is why—”
She lifted her hand, not letting him finish. “Then you already have your answer,” she told him.
His face flushed, his scars standing out white against the reddened skin. “The ceanndraoi forgets that we’re all on the same side here.” He spat on the ground for emphasis. “She forgets that I am ceannàrd.”
“And I am Ceanndraoi Orla Moonshadow, and the Moonshadow has its own side,” she told him. “You’d be wise not to forget that.” Then, with heavy emphasis, “Ceannàrd.”
She nodded to them and walked away.
* * *
Musa returned a few stripes of the candle later bearing Commander Savas’ agreement to meet the next morning, though Musa added that Savas wished Greum to be among the attendees. When Orla questioned that, Musa only replied, “Greum Red-Hand was the ceanndraoi that the commander dealt with until very recently, and he wishes to know how the Red-Hand feels about any decision we might make.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Sub-Commander. Greum Red-Hand was . . . injured, and he currently lies senseless.”
“He’s dying?” Musa asked.
Orla shrugged. “He may recover, he may not. That’s not in anyone’s hands but Elia’s.” I didn’t want his death, as much as I disliked the man. I still don’t.
“The commander was quite emphatic in his wish that the former ceanndraoi attend this meeting.”
Orla wondered at that. What possible advantage could Savas see in Greum’s presence? “For all we know, moving Greum Red-Hand might kill him,” Orla told Musa. “I’m afraid that the commander will have to be disappointed.”
“I’ll relay that to him,” Musa answered, “and if that changes his answer, I’ll return with the news.”
“That will have to do,” Orla told him. “Tell the commander that I look forward to our meeting.”
Musa nodded to them, then pulled himself up into his chariot and gestured to his driver. They watched him drive off. Orla turned to the others. “I need to return to the former ceanndraoi’s quarters before this meeting,” she told them. “Have the parley tent erected, and I’ll be back in the morning.”
* * *
“May I come in, Draoi Ceiteag?” Orla asked the sour face that peered back at her.
“Who am I to refuse the ceanndraoi’s wishes?” Ceiteag answered. She opened the door just wide enough to admit Orla. The room beyond looked little changed from when these had been Orla’s quarters. Bedding had been placed in the room, and through the open archway to the bedroom beyond, Orla could see Greum’s blanket-covered figure. She could see his anamacha standing motionlessly in the corner of the darkened room, as if in accusation.
So he’s not dead . . .
“I hear that Ceanndraoi Orla has secured another great victory over the Mundoan army,” Ceiteag said. Her voice was flat and emotionless. “You must be very proud of your accomplishments.”
“I might be when this is all over,” Orla told her. “But it’s far from done. How’s Draoi Greum? Commander Savas has asked after him.”
“Draoi Greum,” Ceiteag answered with a strong emphasis on the title, “is as you left him, Ceanndraoi. No different.”
“The archiaters . . . ?”
Ceiteag pursed her lips as if she were about to spit. “Worse than useless,” she said. “They wanted to purge him and burn their herbs around his bed. I sent them away. I’ll take care of him myself.”
“May I see him?”
“If you must.”
Ceiteag ushered her into the bedroom. Candles burned in the niches, giving off a scent that couldn’t cover the stronger smell of stale urine and fecal matter. Greum’s face was paler than Orla remembered, and the hands lying on the linen sheets seemed ruddier than before. His lips were cracked and dry, his closed eyes sunken. She could barely see the rise and fall of his chest. A bowl of broth stood on a small table next to the bed, along with a flagon of water, a wedge of cheese, and an uneaten loaf of bread. Ceiteag seemed to notice Orla glancing at the table.
“Every stripe of the candle, I lift his head, open his mouth, and spoon a little water or broth down his throat. If I put food in his mouth, he won’t chew it or swallow it; it just sits there, and I have to pull it back out for fear he’ll choke.” She glared at Orla, her eyes glinting in the light of the candles, her anamacha near her side. Greum’s anamacha also stared at Orla, hands upon hands of faces flickering across their head. “Remember how you told me you didn’t kill him? You lied. In truth, what you’ve done is far worse and more cruel than simple murder. He’ll die slowly now, wasting away from hunger and thirst until his body gives up. Your mother had more compassion than you; she’d have ended his life quickly. Mercifully.”
“Ceiteag, I didn’t know—”
“No, you didn’t know,” Ceiteag said mockingly. “You know so very little, Ceanndraoi.” She blinked heavily, focusing rheum-wet, white-glazed eyes on Orla. “Why are you here? Are you really concerned with the former ceanndraoi’s health? Or is the Moonshadow worried that he might still be a threat to you?”
“No,” Orla told her. “Commander Savas . . . he seemed eager to see Draoi Greum again, and I’m wondering why that was. I’m wondering why Greum said that I’d ruined everything by coming to Onglse and by challenging him as ceanndraoi. I’m wondering what I’m missing, and since you’ve been the Red-Hand’s constant companion for the last several years, and because you knew my mother, I thought you might be willing to tell me.”
Ceiteag looked away from her, her gaze going to Greum. “You and the Moonshadow ruined everything,” she declared, still looking at the stricken draoi. Then her head turned back to Orla. Her eyes were cold and angry. “You’ve no idea.”
“Then tell me,” Orla said.
“No.” The answer was emphatic. “I won’t. Let that be the great Orla Moonshadow’s punishment for what you did to the man who could have brought peace to Albann. Now get out. He doesn’t want you here. Neither do I.” With that statement, Ceiteag’s anamacha slid over to her, and Orla saw it enter her. Her own anamacha responded, coming to her so that the Otherworld began to overlay her vision.
ell whose voice she was hearing as all the draoi inside crowded around her.
She started to leave the room, but Ceiteag called out to her.
“Wait, Ceanndraoi,” the draoi said. Orla turned, seeing Ceiteag biting at her lower lip as she looked at Greum Red-Hand in his bed. “You need to know that he wasn’t a bad man,” she said. “The things he did . . . that he’d agreed to do . . . he thought all of them were the best actions he could take for the Cateni.”
“I believe you,” Orla told her.
Ceiteag heaved a long sigh, as if coming to a difficult decision. “Then I have something to tell you . . .” she began.
* * *
That night, the tent was set up on the ridge between the two encampments. Orla’s entourage, which included Sorcha, Magaidh, Comhnall, Ceiteag, and Eideard as well as a hand of unarmed warriors, set out at daybreak. As they approached, they saw Commander Savas, his two sub-commanders, Musa and Ilkur, their chariot drivers, a sihirki, and other officers already waiting for them, though several more chariots and a cohort of soldiers were perched on the ridge immediately behind them. The two groups were to be seated on opposite sides of the long trestle table under the tent on chairs draped with brocaded cloth. Bread, cheeses, and both ale and water flagons had been set on the table by the kitchen staff from the Cateni tower. The servants hurried forward to escort everyone to their chairs: Orla and Eideard were seated at the middle of the table across from Savas, Musa, and Ilkur.
Orla rose after everyone was seated, their mugs filled, and food offered, though most declined. “Welcome, Commander Savas. It’s good to meet you again.”
“Is it, Ceanndraoi?” Savas asked. “And what is it that you expect us to accomplish here?”
“That’s very simple, Commander: I seek an end to this war.” There were huffs of disbelief and skepticism from around the tent, from both sides of the table. Orla heard Eideard give a nasal half laugh next to her.
Savas’ face, Orla noticed, betrayed nothing of his thoughts. “If that’s what you wish to accomplish, Ceanndraoi, then you’re talking with the wrong person. None of the Mundoa here have the authority to make such a decision—that lies with Great-Voice Utka and Emperor Pashtuk. You should be talking to them.”
“You command the army, and it’s your army that wages the war and pays the greatest price. Not the Great-Voice nor the emperor.”
“So you’re asking me to surrender? Why would I do that, when I still have my army at my back with greater numbers than yours, and when I could send south for yet more troops?” Savas leaned back, folding his arms over his krug.
“Forget the empty threats, Commander. I could strand your army here with a few simple spells,” Orla told him. “What if your troops ships out in Onglse Strait burned, as they did at Muras, so you couldn’t leave Onglse? Are you and your men going to swim back to the mainland? There’s nothing you could do to stop me from doing that, and our draoi and I could do the same to any ships that enter the Strait to replace them or any boats you try to build from the trees here. What does your advantage in numbers matter if you’re marooned here on Onglse? Why, we could just leave you here to starve. After you’ve eaten your horses and the few sheep here on the island, after you’ve plundered what you can of the food stored in the towers you hold, what then? How long would it be until your troops turned on you and begged you to surrender to us? You can’t make a meal of swords, Commander Savas.”
Orla could feel everyone’s eyes on her as she spoke. There was silence in the tent when she’d finished.
“Now who makes empty threats?” Savas asked, still leaning back in his chair. “You’re just as trapped here. You and the draoi won’t leave, because we’d raze your sacred Bàn Cill if you did. Your warriors alone wouldn’t be able to stop us. And even if you sink the ships the Great-Voice sends—and he will send ships, more than you can imagine, because when he stops receiving my reports, he’ll know something is terribly amiss—he’ll simply raise an army and come north with it, burning down every village and slaughtering every Cateni he finds on the way. I may no longer be here at that point, but is that the result you want, Ceanndraoi? You may be as strong or stronger than your mother, but even the Moonshadow can’t stand alone against an army.”
“Perhaps not,” Orla admitted. “So let’s talk about what we can do. After all, you were willing to work with Greum Red-Hand. I’m told that the two of you had reached an agreement, one that was abrogated at Muras.”
Savas’ hands dropped at that statement, and exclamations erupted from around the tent. Eideard stood up, as did Comhnall, and that drew Musa and Ilkur from their seats. Fingers were pointed across the table, and insults were hurled. Orla saw Magaidh start to call her anamacha to her as the meeting threatened to spiral out of control.
It was Savas himself who quashed the fire. “Enough!” he bellowed, standing, his roar cutting through the clamor. “Musa, Ilkur, stand down. Everyone: sit!”
The voice of command worked. Musa and Ilkur and the other Mundoa returned to their seats, and slowly the Cateni did the same. “Better,” Savas said, still standing. He held out his hand toward Orla. “Ceanndraoi, walk with me, if you would.”
27
Revelations
ALTAN REMAINED SILENT AS they walked, as did Orla. He moved deliberately in the direction of the Cateni wall and tower, thinking that going toward the Mundoan line might make Orla suspect an attack. The last thing he wanted now was to rouse the Moonshadow. He felt rather naked without sword or knife, knowing that even though he couldn’t see it, Orla’s anamacha was walking with her.
When they were well away from the parley tent and the others, he stopped, his hands behind his back. “So you’ve spoken with Greum Red-Hand?” he asked Orla. He forced his eyes to remain on the young woman’s damaged face, though that was difficult.
The ceanndraoi shook her head. “Not Greum; he’s still lost in the Otherworld,” she said. “There’s little chance that he’ll live—at least that’s what Draoi Ceiteag believes. It was Ceiteag, his confidante, who told me what she knows.”
Altan nodded. He knew Draoi Ceiteag was the Red-Hand’s closest companion, though in their correspondence Greum had denied that she knew much of the details of their agreement. “And what exactly has she told you?”
“That Muras was to have had a far different outcome. She said that Greum was to retreat when your army arrived without a battle at all, and that some of the clan àrds closest to Ceanndraoi Greum had also agreed to this. The two of you had created a prearranged treaty Greum and Ceannàrd Comhnall would sign to end hostilities. The northern clans would agree to send a yearly tribute to the Great-Voice and Emperor Pashtuk in return for being left alone above the Meadham. But because of my presence, because of what I did, the attitude of Ceannàrd Comhnall changed, as did that of the àrds whom Greum had approached and even Greum Red-Hand himself. Greum began to think that he might be able to force further concessions from you by continuing the fight. Ceiteag didn’t know what concessions Greum had in mind or know how far he was prepared to take things, but that’s what she knew. It’s possible Greum even thought that he might prevail entirely.”
“And now you think the same?”
“I think that if we had to, we could win the victory that eluded my mother.” Altan felt a chill with those words. He started to reply, but Orla continued. “But the cost of that in Cateni lives isn’t a price I’m comfortable paying.”
“I notice you neglect to mention the cost in Mundoan lives.”
Orla merely gazed back placidly at him.
“Mundoan lives are your concern, Commander. Not mine.”
“Is that you speaking or the Moonshadow?”
“Both of us. Though I remind you of what I did yesterday to avoid killing Mundoans. I could have just as easily killed every soldier around your ballistae. I could have just as easily killed you. I did neither of those things.”
Altan sighed. “We keep dancing around with words, Ceanndraoi. I should have talked openly with you about Greum Red-Hand and about our agreement before now, during one of those times you came to me in the night. I didn’t because I didn’t know that I could trust you, especially when I realized that Greum was backing out of our arrangements. For that matter, I was never certain that Great-Voice Utka or Emperor Pashtuk would adhere to such a treaty once I had it in hand or whether it would all fall apart anyway. I’d made my own alternate plans in case, and I followed them. I regret my silence, but I can’t change that now. So let me ask you—as ceanndraoi, would you put your seal to the treaty? If you will, I’ll take it back to Savur, give it to the Great-Voice, and advocate that he also place his seal on it, no matter what that might cost me.”
Orla seemed to be listening to voices that he couldn’t hear, her head cocked to one side. The Moonshadow? he wondered. Or perhaps Voada? “No,” she said after a long pause. “I won’t. Not now.”
“Then just tell me what it is you want, and I’ll tell you whether it’s something I can give you or not, and we’ll both know where we stand.”
“I want an Albann where the Cateni and the clans rule themselves.”
A Rising Moon Page 30