A Rising Moon

by Stephen Leigh

Altan was unable to stop the scoffing laugh that erupted from him at that pronouncement. “Negotiation is about compromise,” he told her. “You’re asking for total surrender from us, and you won’t get it. Ever. And certainly not from me.”

  “Why not?” Orla persisted. “What does Emperor Pashtuk want from Albann, Commander? It can’t be land; you’ve enough of that and more in Rumeli. It can’t be our people—we’ve already proven that we’re poor conscripts, slaves, and servants. How many rebellions has your empire had to quash here already, leading to increasing resentment and discontent among the Cateni you rule? Here we are right now in the midst of yet another rebellion. What value does Albann give to your empire? Our silver and gold? Our jewelry and crafts? Our iron? Our salt from the Storm Sea? Our crops and farm animals? Our coal? Our timber? Our marble? All of those and more go over the Barrier Sea regularly, mined and created and forged by Cateni hands and taken from us without our consent. I ask you to imagine this, Commander: what if those things still flowed from Albann to the empire, only freely? What if Emperor Pashtuk still received from Albann what the empire desires, only without having to keep an army here? You and Greum Red-Hand wanted to end the wars in the north, but perhaps you were thinking too narrowly. What if Albann wasn’t a conquered state but an ally of the empire?”

  Altan’s hand prowled his beard, stroking the glossy salt-and-pepper strands. He wondered if she’d somehow cast a spell without him knowing, for he found himself considering her words rather than simply dismissing them out of hand. Did I make a mistake trying to deal with Greum? Can I trust her? She’s Voada’s daughter, but I liked Voada when I met her at Pencraig, before the Moonshadow . . .

  “I don’t see how that’s possible,” Altan answered.

  “Perhaps it’s not. But it certainly can’t happen at all unless someone makes the proposal in the first place.” She was staring at him, her eyes trapped in scars; she was too young to have done all that she had, but she had the face of an elder. “You’ll die here otherwise, Commander,” she told him. “You and all your soldiers. And for nothing at all. If you think that’s an empty threat, I’d ask you to remember what I did yesterday. Remember what my mother nearly accomplished, and know that I’m stronger than her because my anamacha contains both my mother and the Moonshadow. I’m asking you for all of us: for the Cateni and for the Mundoa. Let us try to end this together, or I will end it alone in blood.”

  He wanted to agree. The exhaustion from decades of battles, the aching in his joints and body, his distaste for Great-Voice Utka . . . he wanted to lay down all those burdens.

  But he was a soldier, and he had his orders.

  “I can’t give you an answer here and now, Ceanndraoi,” he told her. “Let me consider what you’ve said, and I’ll come back to the parley tent, alone, in the morning with my answer.”

  Orla nodded at that. “I’ll be waiting there for you,” she agreed.

  * * *

  Sorcha insisted on accompanying Orla to the parley tent the next morning to await Commander Savas. “I know you’ve already told Ceannàrd Eideard and Magaidh not to come with you, but I’m going, and I don’t care what you say,” she told Orla as they dressed in her quarters. Eideard and Magaidh had been difficult to convince, but Orla had insisted, not wanting them to know what she intended to offer to Savas in order to convince him. They would only try to talk her out of it, and she didn’t have time for arguments. But Sorcha—it would be good to have someone there who would support her without question.

  So Orla chuckled at Sorcha’s determination with a smile that felt strange on her face after a largely sleepless night. She’d kept turning over the possible answers Savas might give her in her mind, along with how she was going to respond. The looming dark presence of the Moonshadow had haunted her dreams when she had been able to fall asleep, and its multiple voices had alternately mocked her and laughed at her.

  Sorcha stood back a pace from Orla as she watched Savas’ chariot approach and stop several strides from the parley tent. The young driver she remembered from her visits to Savas’ bedchambers pulled at the reins with muscular arms, and Savas descended slowly from the vehicle, stiff-legged. As he approached the tent, his gait quickened, and his limp nearly vanished. Like an old man used to concealing his age, she thought. He was weaponless, as before. Savas gave her the Mundoan salute as he stood before her, a fisted hand clasped over the breast of his armor. He gave a nod of acknowledgment to Sorcha before his gaze returned to Orla. “Ceanndraoi,” he said. “I suspect you’ve had as little sleep as I’ve had.”

  “It’s that obvious?” she asked him, and he smiled gently.

  “I’m afraid I’m a poor diplomat,” he said. “I’m just—”

  “I know,” she told him. “A simple soldier. You’ve told me more than once before. But I find you neither simple nor a mere soldier, Commander. So did your sleepless night give you an answer to my question?”

  “It did,” he said. “As much as I would like to avoid further bloodshed, I don’t see how we can possibly achieve what you suggested. I appreciate that you don’t think me a simple soldier, but protecting these troops”—he waved a hand toward the far ridge and the outer wall of Onglse—“as well as the holdings of Emperor Pashtuk is my responsibility. Leaving Onglse to you because of what you might be capable of doing would mean abandoning my duty and my honor. If that means we must continue the fight, then . . .” He stopped, his shoulders lifting and falling again. “As I told you yesterday, I don’t have the authority to do as you asked. Only Great-Voice Utka could do that, or Emperor Pashtuk himself.”

  It was what she’d expected him to say, and it pleased her to see mingled disappointment and regret on his craggy, scarred face. “I’m sorry, Ceanndraoi,” he added. “But it will be an honor to meet you on the battlefield again. To an honorable death, for one of us.”

  She shook her head. “There won’t be a battlefield meeting. I need to go to Great-Voice Utka myself if you can’t do this without him.”

  Savas gave a cough of a laugh. “Ceanndraoi, I can’t allow you to take your army south. Your mother did that—”

  “Not my army,” she said before he could finish. “Only me.”

  Savas blinked. He tilted his head quizzically. “I don’t understand.”

  “If you had captured me alive on the battlefield, what would you have done, Commander?” she asked. “Would you have killed me, or would you have taken me as captive back to Savur for judgment?”

  “I would have taken you to Savur.”

  “Then take me,” she told him. “I’ll go willingly, as your prisoner.”

  “Orla!” Sorcha broke in. “You can’t do this!”

  Orla turned to her, smiling. “Don’t worry,” she told Sorcha. She leaned close to her, speaking in her ear so that Savas couldn’t hear. “This is the best way. I promise you.”

  Then she turned back to Savas. “Well, Commander, you have my offer. Take me to Savur so I can make my case to your Great-Voice. If you won’t do that, then I’ll do as I threatened to do. I’ll burn and sink your ships and leave you and your army here on Onglse to starve, with draoi and warriors across the Strait and on the islands to make certain you don’t leave. Then I’ll take my army south with me. We’ll go to Savur ourselves, and I’ll burn every Mundoan city to the ground as I pass. It’s your choice, Commander. Do you want me as your captive or unleashed as my mother tenfold?”

  “That’s hardly a choice,” he answered.

  “Good,” she told him. “Then here’s how this must happen . . .”

  28

  The Prisoner

  SAVUR WAS BY FAR the largest city Orla had ever seen. Her birth town, Pencraig, had been small—though Orla had thought it quite large at the time—but Penc
raig had still dwarfed most of the clan villages north of the River Meadham. Bàn Cill on Onglse was majestic and beautiful, but it was also small, with rarely more than a few hundred inhabitants except during the solstice celebrations. She’d thought Muras bloated and over-large with its crowds and shipyards. They’d passed through the former capital of Trusa on their way; the partially rebuilt town, rising again from the ashes and ruins in which her mam had left it, had seemed impossibly large and foreboding to Orla’s eyes, with its massive encircling walls and stout, dark gated archways through which all visitors had to pass.

  But Savur . . .

  They had their first glimpse of Savur from the summit of one of the hills that surrounded the Mundoan capital. The vista, bathed in alternating sunlight and shadow from the clouds drifting in the sky, caused Orla to suck in her breath in awe. The city nestled in the arms of seven hills, sprawling in an arc along the glistening waters of the deep harbor, with the many-mouthed River Iska yawning wide into a long bay leading out to the Barrier Sea, a misty line well out in the shimmering distance. The inner city was crowded with tall buildings, most in the minareted Mundoan style with golden domes sparkling in sunlight. The city spilled well beyond the ancient wall, built long ago by the Cateni who had first laid the foundations of the city, and up the slopes of the hills. A wide avenue arrowed through the city all the way to the harbor, crowded with carriages and people. Even from their vantage point the noise of the city reached them, a cacophony formed by thousands of voices, the rattling of livery and carts, music from the public houses, the hammering of smithies, the bleating and lowing of sheep and cattle being led to the markets, and a multitude of other diverse sounds.

  “Ceanndraoi, it’s time,” Savas said. He held out a length of rattling iron chains. He and Orla were in his chariot, Tolga in his usual place in the traces. Savas’ muscular warhorses had been replaced by twin white steeds for their entry into the city. They were accompanied by a partial cohort of soldiers in Mundoan armor, though they were not all Mundoan. Sorcha rode a horse alongside the chariot; Orla heard her take a long breath as Orla held out her hands to Savas, who wrapped her wrists in the heavy, cold chains before closing a large lock through the links to bind them together. He stretched out his arm to hand the key to Sorcha. “Here,” he said. “We each have a key. But I can’t have the ceanndraoi entering Savur without her hands bound so that she can’t cast a spell. In truth, Great-Voice Utka will ask why she still has her hands and her tongue when he wants her head as well, but . . .”

  “This was the only way, Sorcha,” Orla told her. “The only way.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Sorcha answered. Orla could see her blinking away tears. “We all know that. You could have taken victory at Onglse and elsewhere.”

  Orla lifted her chained hands. “This was the only way we might avoid mass bloodshed.”

  “Except yours, or perhaps the commander’s.”

  “This was Elia’s way,” Orla told Sorcha calmly. “I prayed to Her, and this was the answer She gave me.”

  “And it’s the way we’re all committed to now,” Savas broke in. He nodded to Tolga, and the chariot began to move forward again, its iron-clad wheels loud on the flagstones of the North Road, well-paved this close to the capital. “Sorcha, stay behind the chariot with the soldiers. Ceanndraoi, it may become rough from here; I’ll shield you as best I can.”

  They rode down from the hills toward the city. As they moved between the outlying houses and farms, people began to gawk and point. Most of them wore Mundoan clothing, but Orla could see the occasional Cateni faces among the onlookers. The crowd grew in size and volume as they approached the city gates, and Orla heard the whispers: “Commander Savas! Look, he’s captured the ceanndraoi! The Moonshadow is in chains!”

  As they passed through a market square near the gates, fruits and vegetables as well as rocks and occasional feces from the horses and dogs of the city began to rain down on the chariot, hurled with curses and insults toward Orla. “Cateni witch! You killed my son! My husband is dead and my children fatherless because of you! Flay her alive! Rip her stomach open, and let the crows feed on her while she screams!”

  As he’d promised, Commander Savas raised his shield over Orla as she crouched low in the chariot. Along with the invectives, she could hear the sounds as the missiles struck the shield, spattering her with their shattered, wet fragments. She heard Sorcha screaming uselessly at the crowd, telling them to stop. The soldiers around them spread out along the roadway, pushing back the onlookers with their warhorses. At the same time, the Moonshadow’s voices howled in protest in Orla’s mind.

  Orla found herself in agreement, wishing her hands were free. I could end this with a spell. I could send them running in fear.

  From under Savas’ shield, Orla saw that the guards stationed at the open gates suddenly came to full attention, saluting the chariot that flew the commander’s banner. They passed through the shadows of the arch, the rain of abuse ending, and out into sun again along the wide Avenue of the Emperor.

  “We’re safe enough here,” Savas said as he lowered his shield and set it aside, allowing Orla to see the shade trees set along either side of the road and government buildings of white stone and gold-domed minarets placed well back on manicured lawns. Orla found herself both awed and angered by the architectural opulence on display, knowing that it was Cateni slave labor that brought in the raw materials that had gone into these edifices, Cateni stonemasons who had cut and shaped the marble and granite blocks, Cateni forests that had supplied the timber, and Cateni laborers who had milled the logs. It had been Cateni craftspeople who hammered together the boards and mortared the stones, laid the tiles and fitted the doors and windows. It was Cateni gold that adorned the spires and gilded the ornamental touches. These massive buildings were maintained and cleaned and polished by Cateni servants and slaves.

  All the riches on display in Savur were stolen goods that belonged to Albann and the clans.

  There were crowds along the Avenue of the Emperor—nearly all Mundoan—who shouted insults toward Orla and gave loud cheers for Commander Savas and the troops with him, but there were also soldiers in the livery of Great-Voice Utka stationed along the avenue, keeping everyone back and under control. There were a few Cateni servants in view, but though they watched Orla intently as she passed, they remained silent.

  Great-Voice Utka’s keep was near the harbor; Orla could smell the sea as they approached; gulls with raucous calls banked across the sky on wide white wings. If Orla had thought the other buildings ostentatious, this one seemed built for a god. They first had to pass along a vast wall that hid much of the keep from common eyes, then they came to huge double gates a hand of men tall that yawned open as they approached, several soldiers pushing on the gilded iron bands that confined the thick oaken timbers in order to swing them open. Tolga turned the chariot into a great courtyard, Sorcha and the soldiers following behind before the gates were closed once more.

  A wide expanse of marble steps led up to a columned portico where golden doors opened to disgorge a phalanx of keep guards and richly dressed attendants. They were followed by the Great-Voice Utka himself, wearing a blood-red entari over his tunic and a matching sarik emblazoned with a golden hawk. Orla could see that the Great-Voice was no military man; the arms that emerged from his entari showed little musculature as he raised a hand glittering with jeweled rings toward Savas. His long beard was oiled and dyed an utter black, plaited with silver and gold threads. Dark, shadowed eyes stared at Orla from under his sarik, lingering on her face and the silver torc around her neck. She hated the feel of his stare.

  “So this is Mad Voada’s spawn,” he said. “She can’t use her spells?”

  Savas lifted Orla’s chained hands so that Utka could see her bonds. “No, Great-Voice.”

 
Utka sniffed as Savas let Orla’s hands drop again, the chains rattling. “Hmm . . . I’d have simply lopped off the girl’s hands entirely; then there’d be nothing to worry about at all. She’s not as impressive as I’d thought she’d be from the reports you sent. I was expecting . . . someone more dangerous in appearance, I must admit. Still . . .” Utka waved his jeweled hand. “Bring her in. I want to see our new prize captive.”

  Great-Voice Utka turned, his lackeys—Cateni, Orla noted—swung open the door of the keep again, and Utka and his entourage went into the darkness beyond. Savas pointed to two of his soldiers, one an older man, the other younger with a dark beard. “Sub-commander,” he said to the older, “stay with the men here in the courtyard. You know your orders. You”—that to the younger man— “come with me, and bring two hands of men with you.”

  With that, Savas leaped down from the chariot as Tolga left the traces to hold the reins of the horses. Savas helped Orla down onto the ground as the uniformed and armored warrior escorts and Sorcha all dismounted. More Cateni servants came forward to take their horses. “Stable the horses,” Savas told Tolga and the servants. “I expect we’ll be here for a time.” Then he leaned close to Orla. “You’re certain this is still what you want?” he asked again.

  Orla nodded, though part of her wanted nothing more than to flee from this place surrounded by her enemies. “Are you certain it’s what you want?” she asked him in return.

  Savas didn’t answer. Instead he pretended to examine her cuffed hands; she felt him slip the key to the lock into her palm. Then he took her arm and—more roughly—walked her up the steps to the keep, with Sorcha and the soldiers behind.

  29

  A Rising Moon

  THE ROOM INTO WHICH Orla was eventually hauled was huge and opulent. The Great-Voice sat on a throne on a raised dais with two steps; Orla thought he looked like a gilded toad sitting atop a mushroom, waiting for flies to pass by. His acolytes stood to either side of the dais, and there were guards armed with pikes and swords on either side as well, with two more at the door of the room. Closed doors behind the dais promised to lead deeper into the warrens of the keep.