A Rising Moon
Page 33
Orla forced her own voice above the others she held inside her.
With a shrill wail, the Moonshadow fled across the pocked, savaged landscape of the Otherworld. When Orla could no longer feel it, she opened her arms again. she told them.
The taibhse slid away from her, one by one returning to Magh da Chèo. Her mam was the last, and she turned to Orla with a smile.
Now that the other draoi inside the Moonshadow’s anamacha were no longer connected to her, Orla felt the rising of an overwhelming exhaustion. Magh da Chèo faded from her sight as the real world snapped into focus around her, the people there suddenly unfrozen. Her legs collapsed underneath her, and she felt Sorcha trying to hold her up. Then Savas was there helping, and Eideard, and they laid her down on the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Orla said, her voice a dry, broken husk. She looked at each of them. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t how . . . But it’s over now. Over . . .”
But even the real world was fading now, and she allowed the sweeping blanket of night to take her.
* * *
Orla fought her way through thick clouds and a terrible weight pressing down on her. Her eyes refused to open. She flailed her arms, trying to escape, and someone caught her hands.
“Shh!” a voice whispered. “It’s all right. You’re fine. I have you.”
“Sorcha?”
Lips pressed the skin of her hand. “Aye,” Sorcha answered. “You’re in the Great-Voice’s bed in the keep. Here . . .” Orla felt a cool, damp cloth press against her eyes, wiping them gently. “That should help. Your eyes were all crusted with sleep.”
Her eyelids lifted slowly. It seemed to be night. Candles and oil lamps were the only illumination in the room, casting wavering shadows over the tapestried walls where figures in Mundoan dress swayed. The bedroom was large and lavish, with cushioned chairs against the walls and gathered around a table near the room’s hearth. Orla found herself wondering how many people shared the bed and the room with Utka, a thought she quickly shoved away.
Sorcha leaned over her, her long strands of brown hair—black in the night—falling like glossy curtains over the sides of her face. “How long?” Orla managed to say.
“Several stripes of the candle. Are you thirsty? I have water or wine, and there’s mulled wine heating at the hearth if you’d prefer.”
“Just water for now. Thank you.” Her mouth was dry, her throat parched. Orla pulled the thick quilt aside and sat up slowly, taking the mug of water that Sorcha pressed into her hand. “What’s happened since . . .” She wasn’t sure how to finish the question.
“Very little, honestly,” Sorcha answered. “Commander Savas and Ceannàrd Iosa have made certain that we continue to hold the keep, though with the walls being breached . . .” Sorcha bit her lip, and a stab of guilt went through Orla at the memory that it was she and the Moonshadow who had done that. “Magaidh and other draoi have arrived, though. The Mundoan garrison in Savur seems confused and uncertain how to respond, since they know we hold the Great-Voice captive. Both the commander and ceannàrd, as well as Draoi Magaidh and First Àrd Comhnall, asked me to tell them when you awoke. I can wait until you’re sure you’ve rested long enough . . .”
Orla smiled at the woman, though the gesture was an effort and faded as quickly as it had come. She set the mug aside, rose from the bed, and hugged Sorcha fiercely, the solid feel of her body a comfort against the uncertainty in her head. “No,” she said. “Go and bring them to me. We have decisions to make.” And I have an apology to deliver.
They arrived just as Orla poured some of the warm mulled wine into one of the silver goblets stamped with the imperial hawks on the table; the astringent scent of the spices cleared her head somewhat. She waved all of them to seats near the hearth; Sorcha, unasked, ladled more of the spiced wine into the remaining goblets. They all stared at her, Magaidh especially, as if searching for Voada’s madness seared into her scarred face.
“I’m sorry for what happened,” Orla told them. “I lost control of the Moonshadow. But I’ve learned a method to handle it and bend the beast inside the anamacha to my will rather than its own. I promise you that it won’t happen again.”
“I heard your mam say nearly those same words once,” Magaidh said. “I think that’s a dangerous promise to make.”
Savas and Comhnall both nodded. Eideard’s eyes narrowed. Orla tightened her lips: not a smile, not a grimace. “I understand why you would feel that way, Magaidh. I absolutely do. But it’s true—and it’s a skill I believe I can teach to any of the draoi who are afraid to call up the entity at the core of their anamacha for fear of its power—and that will make all of us stronger draoi. Believe me, I know better than most how dangerous it can be to call up an anamacha’s source.” Orla gestured to her face. “I wish Mam had discovered what I have; if she had, you might be talking to her now rather than me. And I understand if you feel you can’t entirely trust my word on this. I hope that in time you’ll see that I can truly be Orla Moonshadow and not simply the Moonshadow’s puppet.” She caught Savas’ gaze. “I never intended to kill any innocents here, Commander, either Mundoan or Cateni. But I lost my initial fight with the Moonshadow.”
“We’re at war,” Eideard interjected before Savas could speak. He gave a snort of laughter. “No one dying? No one hurt? That was never going to happen no matter how much you wanted it, Ceanndraoi. And the commander knows that as well as I do.”
“What does happen now?” Magaidh asked into the following silence. “That’s the real question. For example, what do we do with Great-Voice Utka?”
“Simple,” Eideard responded. “We send his head to Pashtuk. That’ll have the additional benefit of stopping the terrific racket he’s been making in what’s left of the reception hall. I swear the man has the lungs of a Gray Wraith.”
Orla was already shaking her head before the ceannàrd finished. “I didn’t spare the Great-Voice just to kill him. Let him go back to Rumeli and tell the emperor how he lost Albann for him.”
“So let the emperor kill him?” Eideard said. “Because that’s what will happen.”
“The emperor’s likely to do far worse to the man than just take his head.” Savas spoke for the first time. He glanced around the table at each of them. “Here’s what I would like, if the ceanndraoi agrees. Right now my army is still on Onglse, per your request. Let me send word to Musa and Ilkur that we’ve taken Savur and its garrison and that the Great-Voice is our prisoner. I’ll order Musa and Ilkur to take our troops on Onglse to Gediz and await further instructions. As commander, I’ll then write an order to be delivered to every garrison in Albann declaring that Great-Voice Utka has surrendered unconditionally to Ceanndraoi Orla, Ceannàrd Iosa, and the army of the clans. All Cateni conscripts are be released from service immediately; all Mundoan-born soldiers have free passage to make their way to Gediz or Savur, whichever is closer, from which they will take ships back to Rumeli. Any soldier with a Cateni wife and family who instead prefers to remain in Albann will be allowed to do so—I suspect there are several soldiers who have made their homes here and would want to stay.”
“And for my part?” Orla asked.
“I would like to send a report to Emperor Pashtuk confessing my actions in everything that’s happened. I will also tell him that while Albann insists on self-rule
, as long as he doesn’t retaliate, the clans will continue to send their tribute to the emperor and consider themselves an ally of the Mundoan Empire. Albann will welcome Mundoan travelers and commerce as long as they abide by the customs and laws of Albann. Furthermore, as reparation for the loss of Savur, you will also send back to the emperor his Great-Voice, the soldiers of the Savur garrison, as well as the contents of the treasury Great-Voice Utka amassed here.”
There were mutters and whispers around the table as Orla pondered that. First Àrd Comhnall had said nothing during the discussion. Now he set down his goblet of mulled wine and sat up in his chair, groaning slightly as he moved. “And how to do you think the emperor will respond to all this, Commander, should the ceanndraoi agree to your suggestions?”
“I don’t know the emperor well enough to even guess,” Savas admitted. “It’s possible he may simply raise a new army under a new commander and send an invasion force to take back Albann; in that case, I think he’d ultimately regret his decision, as the draoi and all of Albann would be set against him and he’d be without any strongholds here. Or he may agree, if grudgingly, to this compromise—at least for a time—in order to salvage what he can. That’s my hope.” Savas picked up his own wine, swirling the red liquid as he stared down into the goblet. He set it down without drinking, tapping the side with a fingernail so that the goblet rang like a bell. “One last item: I intend to give my report to the emperor face-to-face. I’ll accompany Great-Voice Utka and the soldiers in taking ship to Rumeli.”
“And you’d go,” Orla asked him, “even knowing that you’d almost certainly be going to your own death?”
Savas lifted his gaze to meet hers. The lines of his face were carved deeper into his skin than before. “I would,” he said. “It’s nothing less than I deserve for my betrayal and disobedience.”
“Because you’re just a simple soldier?” Orla asked him, and one corner of his mouth lifted in a fleeting smile at her comment.
“Yes,” he answered. “And as such, I will resign my command directly to the emperor and accept whatever punishment he demands.”
Orla looked around the table. She felt her anamacha close behind her, an icy presence at her spine.
Orla shook her head at the voices and at Savas. “You may go to Rumeli if you feel you must, Commander,” she told him. “But you’ll also be taking a message from me as ceanndraoi. And you’ll tell him that he’d best not disregard the dreams he’ll have experienced before your arrival.”
“His dreams?” Savas asked, his forehead creasing in puzzlement. Then his forehead smoothed. “Oh,” he said. He nodded to Orla. “I’ll tell him exactly that.”
30
An Emperor’s Dream
THE BEDROOM OF EMPEROR Pashtuk was more lavish than that of Great-Voice Utka and far more crowded. Orla knew from sad experience that Mundoan men in power often took more than one wife; there were two women sharing the emperor’s bed, one spooned against him under the covers, the other one on her side with her back to him, naked on top of the quilt. Two more women slept on separate beds to either side of the room. Three servants added to the sounds of snoring: a man in the far corner and a young man and woman cuddled together near the hearth and a table laden with the remnants of a dinner. In the hearth, flames licked along the length of a huge log, embers crawling on the blackened wood.
Emperor Pashtuk wore a gown of aching blue with the sigil of the empire embroidered at his breast. His oiled and braided beard lay like a sleeping cat on the quilt over him.
Orla strode over to the bed, standing at the foot. “Emperor Pashtuk,” she said loudly.
His eyes opened and found her. He gasped, sitting up in the bed. His movement shook his bedmates but didn’t wake them. “Who . . . ?” he sputtered. “How did you . . . ?” Then, finally: “Guards! Get in here! Everyone, wake up! Intruder! Assassin!” He shook the shoulder of the nearest woman; but there was no response.
Orla smiled at him. “Shout all you like, Emperor; they can’t hear you. And you can’t wake your bedmates either.”
Pashtuk lunged for the bedside table. He snatched a long curved dagger from the drawer there. Sweeping aside the covers, he lunged for Orla with a scream. She watched the blade plunge harmlessly through her body. Pashtuk drew back the weapon and stabbed her again with the same result. Breathing heavily, his robe open, he stared at the blade. “You’re a spirit. A ghost,” Pashtuk said. “Or you’re bad meat I was served this evening haunting my sleep.”
“I’ve been called all of that before—well, I’ve never been called bad meat—but I’m very much alive. Emperor Pashtuk, I am Ceanndraoi Orla of Albann, daughter of Ceanndraoi Voada, and I hold the Moonshadow. It’s through the Moonshadow’s power that I’ve come to you.”
“You’re the Mad Draoi’s daughter? This is a spell? An enchantment?”
Orla nodded. “It is. I’ve come to bring you news. Just listen, for my spell will fade soon enough . . .” She began to tell him all that had transpired. She could see the skepticism on his yellow-brown face growing as she spoke, and when she finished, he spat on the floor between them.
“You expect me to believe any of this?”
“The proof of what I’ve said is already on its way to you. You’ll have it soon enough.”
“And if it is true, then you dare, you dare to name Altan Savas as Great-Voice and the sole representative of my empire in Albann?”
“I’ve already done so,” she answered calmly. Orla saw Pashtuk open his mouth to protest again, and she lifted her hand to silence him. “I also expect Great-Voice Savas to be returned, or you’ll have made a mortal enemy of Albann and me, not an ally.”
“And if I send you back the traitor commander’s head instead?” Pashtuk asked. “What then?”
“Then,” she answered, “you should consider that I’m standing in your bedroom without any of your people knowing that I’m here or responding. I’d tell you to imagine what else I might be capable of doing that you could neither prevent nor stop. When he comes to you, ask the former Great-Voice Utka what I did in Savur, and think of that happening here—because it would. I am Orla Moonshadow. I promise that you don’t want me as your enemy, Emperor.”
She saw him ponder what she said. Her words were pure bluff, but he couldn’t know that. “I’m neither dream nor ghost,” she continued. “I am entirely real, and the proof of everything I’ve told you, as I said, will be before you before the next moon comes. I hope you make the right choice, Emperor Pashtuk, or it will be one of your last.”
With that, Orla let the spell fall away from her and vanished.
Epilogue
Year 1
ORLA TOUCHED THE TWIN silver oak leaves on their silver chain, then spread her arms to her anamacha, feeling the shock of cold and disorientation as the anamacha entered her body and her vision became doubled with the landscape of Magh da Chèo. The spirits of the draoi gathered around her, and she called them all to her:
She felt its approach like a storm rushing over the landscape. Lightning snapped and snarled, thunder boomed, but she was surrounded by the other draoi, the ones the Moonshadow had rendered mad and killed, and they faced the dark presence together. Not entirely unafraid, any of them—Orla was certain that she’d never completely lose the fear of bringing the Moonshadow forth and allowing it to enter her.
she told them.
The Moonshadow’s low voice rumbled.
.
Sullenly, the Moonshadow turned to the raging storms above them and began to claw at the clouds, lightning shimmering around its hands before it disdainfully flung the energy toward Orla, whose hands were moving in the pattern of the spell cage: a large one, for she would need everything she could possibly hold.
She was standing in the plaza of the Great Temple at Savur: the most Mundoan building in all of the capital city. The plaza had been cleared of visitors by clan warriors under the direction of First Àrd Comhnall, and Magaidh watched with her husband from the plaza’s tiled entrance. The Great Temple of the Emperor loomed above Orla, a tall and massive dome atop the three-story facade of balconies and archways, the gold-leafed dome itself set in a forest of minarets.
Over the last month, Orla had set about the work of repairing the damage done to Savur by herself and the Moonshadow. The Great-Voice’s keep had been restored, the wall around it rebuilt, the Avenue of the Emperor repaved—it was now called the Avenue of the Ceanndraoi by nearly everyone—and the buildings along the avenue repaired or replaced. Some of that work had been done by Cateni craftspeople, but much of it was the result of draoi spells, the bulk of them Orla’s.
But there was no way to restore the lives that had been lost that day. The gold that Orla had ordered given to the families in restitution could never replace the loved ones they had lost, nor did it temper the guilt that Orla would always feel.
Now she wanted Savur to shed its reputation as a model Mundoan city. She would remake Savur in the mold of the Cateni so that travelers who came here would see what Albann and the clans were capable of achieving. She took in the Moonshadow’s energy, facing the Great Temple and imagining it as a temple of Elia: one larger and more elaborate than any she’d ever seen, with a ring of blackstones around its perimeter; its dome—she would allow it to remain golden in memory of what it had once been—open to the sun and sky, with four huge entrances and great windows of stained glass above them, aligned to the solstices’ sunrises and sunsets. The paths of the solstices would scribe a great X on the tiled floor, and where the lines intersected a massive blackstone altar would sit, with a smiling statue of Elia atop it, awash in sunlight or nourished by rain. No more minarets; no more gaudy architectural touches that the Mundoan loved so much. This would be simpler, but it would also be grander because of its very simplicity.