Empire's Reckoning

by Marian L Thorpe

“Yes,” she said in a small voice. “I know he loves her. But she doesn't do the same.”

  “Not in front of you,” I said, “and perhaps that has been a mistake on your mother’s part.” One I understood but had never quite agreed with. “But she does, when it is just the four of us together, and I am sure even more so, when they are alone.” I would raise this with Lena, I thought, when we were home. Above us a bird gyred in the warming air, hunting. Fuádain, I thought, looking up at it. I pointed it out to Gwenna. “What is it after?” she asked.

  “Grouse,” I said, “over these moors.” She seemed content with what I had said about her parents. Were Cillian and Lena happy? Together, yes. Of that I was convinced. But their separate happiness was another question. Lena was satisfied with her life, and I believed she was happy. Cillian would never be completely at peace.

  “Listen!” Gwenna raised a hand. We reined the horses to a stop, to quiet the creak of leather and the jingle of metal. A dog barked, high and sharp and insistent, an edge of panic in the sound.

  “Over there.” Druise pointed. We turned the horses off the track and over the moor. The barking grew louder. A sheepdog ran to us, whining, circling us. I gave it the 'find' command and it started back the way it had come.

  At the base of a crag perhaps three times a man’s height, the dog led us straight to a body, unconscious or worse on the ground. A dead lamb lay nearby, blood clotted at its mouth. The story was clear: the shepherd had tried to rescue the lamb from somewhere on the crag and fallen.

  Druise was off his horse and at the man’s side. He felt for a pulse. “He’s alive,” he said. The shepherd’s leg was bent underneath him at a horrible, unnatural angle.

  “I'll go for help,” I said. “Gwenna, stay with Druise.” I reined my horse around and rode for Sullistorp.

  Several hours later, we had the shepherd on a table in Sullistorp’s hall, and Druise and the Konë were splinting and binding the leg. A bad break, Druise said, but the bone had not torn through the flesh. Birgit, the Konë, had dosed the shepherd with poppy before the cart journey to the torp, and again before beginning to work on his leg. Gwenna had made herself useful holding horses' heads and opening gates, but otherwise had stayed out of the way.

  They finished their work, and two men who had been waiting at the edge of the hall carried the shepherd to a bed somewhere down a corridor. Birgit watched them go. She had run the torp since Sullis, her husband, had died fighting the Marai. Her torpari respected her competence and authority.

  “I hope he recovers,” she said. “A dry day, too. I wonder what made him slip?” She shook her head. “A drink now?” She looked at Druise. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Druisius. Captain of Ésparias,” Druise replied.

  “You are Casilani,” the Konë said. Not a question; no man of Ésparias or Linrathe had skin as dark as Druise’s.

  “I was,” Druise said, in his accented Linrathan. “Ésparian now. I guard the Comiádh’s daughter.”

  Birgit turned to look at Gwenna, sitting quietly against the wall. “I did not realize who you were,” she said to her. “My apologies.”

  “There is no need to apologize, Konë Birgit. Why should you know who I am?” she said, standing. She repeated her explanation of why she was travelling with us.

  “My daughter will show you to a room,” she said, calling a name. A girl about Gwenna’s age appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. Birgit introduced her to Gwenna, and they went off together. “They are both heirs,” Birgit said. “My daughter to these lands, and the Comiádh’s to Ésparias.”

  “In theory,” I answered. “But with the Princip less than ten years older than Gwenna, it’s unlikely she’ll ever take on the role, or not until she’s an old woman herself.”

  “Unless they marry,” the Konë suggested. “That would ensure the inheritance in both lines.”

  “I suppose,” I said. “I wouldn’t say that in Gwenna’s hearing, though.”

  “She cannot choose whom she marries,” Birgit said. “My daughter is pledged to Gedwinstorp’s heir, already.”

  “Ésparias thinks differently,” I said. Although it didn’t now in a few places; one of the changes nearly fifteen years of Casilani rule had brought. And when it came to the Princip, it certainly didn’t; that was part of why I needed to be at Dun Ceànnar tomorrow. “Konë, I forgot to ask when we arrived. My horse should have grain tonight and tomorrow morning if possible. I must ride at speed to Dun Ceànnar at first light. Will you arrange it?”

  “I’ll do it now. We need more ale, too. I won’t be a minute.” She strode off. I took the mug of ale she’d poured for me off the table.

  “You must ride at speed?” Druise asked.

  “Yes. You and Gwenna can follow at a slower pace. I’ve half a mind to go tonight, except my horse needs the rest. Ruar expects me.”

  The evening followed the usual pattern: the meal, then music, this time with Druise accompanying me. He played a few Casilani songs, to polite interest, until I used my early start as an excuse to end the singing. In the hall, sharing a last round of ale with some of the men of the torp and Birgit, Druise took me aside.

  “Gwenna asked me tonight about what the shepherd was given to ease his pain. Why we did not have this drug for her father,” he told me in Casilan.

  “What did you say?”

  “That I would ask what it was and tell her tomorrow.”

  “Will you?”

  “Should I?”

  “Yes. I think you should. He told us we could tell her what we chose.”

  “About why he broke his oath to Linrathe. Not this,” Druise pointed out.

  “Finish your ale, and walk me to my room,” I said. We said our goodnights to the men. “I have a few things to discuss with Druisius before I leave,” I told them.

  “Fill your cups again, and take them with you,” Birgit said. “Singing is thirsty work, and talking, too. Good night, Sorley. Your horse will be waiting for you in the morning.”

  At my room, I closed the door. The only light was from the banked fire, and the candle Druise had carried to light our way. He put it down on a table. I put my arms around him, holding him close for a moment, his strong, familiar body reassuring. We kissed, briefly, before I opened the door again.

  “There is more to what Gwenna’s classmates have been saying to her than just doubts about Cillian’s loyalty,” I told him, reverting to Casilan. “She’s heard a lot of things, and if the poppy isn’t part of it, I’ll be surprised. More than just the three of us and Gnaius knew, and people talk.”

  “Likely you are right,” Druise said. “The questions about her parents’ happiness — rumours from the same source, you think?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will not talk to her about that,” he warned.

  “I will. If she asks again, and I think she will.” I said with a wry grin. “Sooner or later she’ll realize I didn’t answer her question,”

  Chapter 28

  Rain again the next morning; I was drenched by the time I reached Dun Ceànnar. The steward took me to the room I requested. “Not your usual, Lord Sorley?” he asked, but I explained my need to be close to Gwenna’s guardsman.

  “Not that there can be a problem, here,” I told the man, “but I promised her father.” He simply nodded and gave me the room. I changed quickly, rubbing my hair until it didn't drip. Then I went to find Ruar.

  The Teannasach was in the big room he used as a workroom, Daoíre with him. I accepted the brief kisses of welcome, from Ruar first, and gladly assented to the offer of tea. We sat at the big table, talking at first of the Ti'ach, and my reasons for going north. I told them Druise and Gwenna would be arriving later, but I guessed that with this rain, they might delay until tomorrow.

  “I would have liked to see Gwenna again,” Ruar said. “She was at the White Fort when I was last at the Ti'ach, so I have not seen her for some years. She is — how old?”

  “Fourteen.” He had been Teannas
ach at fourteen.

  “You’ll be taking her to Casil soon.” I had taken him the year he was seventeen. We’d spent three months there, and Ruar had hated it.

  “Cillian wants to wait another few years, until Druise and I can take both children together.”

  “He won’t go?”

  “I doubt he can,” I said. “That much travel? Lena might, though.” Although I guessed she would not leave Cillian for so long, if I was gone too.

  “To business,” he said briskly. “Are all the plans for the wedding in place?”

  “They are,” I told him. “A joint ceremony; Casyn will preside for Ésparias. He is a follower of the soldier’s god, and I believe he holds high office in that practice, although that’s only a guess.”

  “And you, as head of the scáeli’en?”

  “I can. But would not Siusàn prefer Amlodd, as Dun Ceànnar’s scáeli?” I had always thought Amlodd should have been head of the council before me, but the members had had a different view.

  “Likely. If she wants him, he will officiate,” Ruar decided. We spoke a while longer about the marriage of his sister Siusàn to Faolyn, Princip of Ésparias. The second in the web of relationships binding our western lands together, Cillian’s vision slowly becoming real.

  “Ruar,” Daoíre said, after a while. “You must prepare to leave.”

  “I need to do nothing but mount my horse,” Ruar replied. “And I had best say my farewells to Helvi; Sorley, would you accompany me?”

  We walked down one of the maze of hallways to the women’s rooms. Helvi was at her desk, writing. She looked up as we came in. “Leave us,” she said to her companion.

  “Lord Sorley,” Helvi greeted me in Marái’sta. “How good to see you.”

  “My lady,” I said, kissing her extended hand. “I met your cousin, on the road to the Ti’ach. Was it your idea that he pretended to be from Sorham?”

  “Mine,” Ruar said. “I couched his letter of safe passage in uncertain terms. Did it serve?”

  “It did. He would have been apprehended by the guard on the Ti’ach’s lands, of course, except that Druise escorted him back to Cillian. Who was not the least surprised to see him, Druise tells me.”

  “Of course not,” Helvi said. “Cillian invited him.”

  “In one of the letters I brought last time?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “Bjørn wants a school in Varsland, and he had written to Cillian to tell him that. The children of the king, when he has them, and those of the earls need to know of the wider world and its philosophies, if they are to be part of it, and not barbarians on the edge of civilization. He does not want to wait another ten years, nor will he countenance sending children of Varsland to Sorham to be educated.”

  “This is faster than Cillian had planned,” I said.

  “So perhaps the next Ti’ach is not in Sorham, but across the sea,” she answered. “There are those in Varsland who do not like the forts Casil has built along the coast. They see them as a threat, because, after all, who else could the enemy be but the Marai?”

  Who indeed? “At least Casil does not completely control the trading harbour,” I said. As they so easily could have.

  “At least,” she agreed. She glanced at her husband. “Should I speak of the other matter, Ruar, or you?”

  “Better me, I think,” he said. “I wish in some ways you hadn’t needed to come north to me, because I do not think Cillian will like what else they had to say. But there is some truth in it. I have done my part, in marrying Helvi, although,” he smiled down at her, “it has been no hardship at all. My sister goes to wed Faolyn in a few weeks. Varsland and Linrathe, Linrathe and Ésparias. What of Ésparias and Varsland? Where will Gwenna wed, Sorley?”

  “She is fourteen,” I protested, my throat suddenly dry.

  “Not too young to be promised,” he said. “My sister was nine, and Helvi thirteen, if you recall.”

  I shook my head. “Cillian not liking this will be an understatement. Who are they suggesting?”

  “The king, of course,” Ruar said. “She is appropriate, given her relationship to the Princip. He is twenty-three. Not an unsuitable difference in age.”

  Nine years. Cillian could make no objection on that basis, with thirteen years between him and Lena. If Cillian would recoil at the suggestion, Lena might kill someone, I reflected. Or at least threaten.

  “Cillian will say no,” I said. “Ruar, surely you see it is impossible. What Fritjof and his men did...Gwenna’s own cousin, Lena’s sister’s son, is Marai-fathered. For her to marry a man of Varsland, as much as he also hates what Fritjof did, would be repudiating the murder and rape of Ésparias’s women, not to mention everyone who died in the war.” I heard my voice rising. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I am letting my feelings override courtesy.”

  “I do see,” Ruar said. “But it is what will be suggested. What counter-suggestions are there, Sorley? We need Varsland with us, and without that marriage, the connection with Ésparias is tenuous. The long history that Linrathe has with Varsland is lacking between those two lands.”

  “Faolyn has a sister,” I said, thinking. “Lynthe. She is seventeen, maybe. And Casyn’s other daughter has children — but she renounced any claim on the inheritance, for herself or her children. But it is Ésparias, Ruar. Their women have different expectations. With all respect, Helvi, you knew you would be required to make a marriage for political purposes, and women in Linrathe expect to marry for reasons of land and property. Ésparias has acknowledged marriage, yes, but rarely for such reasons.”

  “Sorley?” Ruar’s voice was uncharacteristically hesitant. “Is there not a daughter of Cillian’s somewhere in Linrathe that he could claim? From before he met Lena? He did travel, extensively, and for many years.”

  “No,” I said. “No children, male or female.”

  “How can he be sure?”

  “He is,” I said bluntly. “He swore to leave no child fatherless, because he had been, and so he ensured it could not happen. But a late-acknowledged bastard would not be acceptable to Bryngyl, anyhow.”

  “Perhaps not,” Ruar said. “Although it would have been to the Empress Eudekia, so how could he gainsay?”

  I had no answer to that. Had Eudekia known Cillian had been thirty-three when his father had acknowledged him? Perhaps he had told her, in one of their late-night talks. “How did you know that?” I asked Ruar.

  “Cillian told me,” he said. “We were discussing the treaties, and how he had negotiated them.”

  “I see. I have no solution for you, Teannasach, but I can’t believe Cillian hasn’t foreseen this, and planned for it. But that plan will not include Gwenna.”

  There was a sharp rap at the door, before it was opened by Daoíre. “Ruar,” he said, “we must leave.”

  “All right,” Ruar said. He ran a finger down Helvi’s cheek, bending to kiss her. “I will be home in a week, no more, and maybe less,” he told her. He looked up. “Daoíre, wait for me with the horses. I will be there in a moment.”

  He pushed his dark hair out of his eyes. “Walk with me.” I bowed again to Helvi, and side by side Ruar and I went through the corridors to the great hall.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “West, to the coast. To settle a land dispute. One Eirën wants to break a marriage contract for his son, and he is alleging the girl is not the other Eirën’s, but Marai-fathered. Her age makes it possible. But the first has his eye on a better alliance, in terms of property, so he may well be manufacturing the claim.”

  “What will you do?”

  “If the Eirën acknowledges the girl as his daughter, and will swear she is his heir, then the contract must stand.” A servant handed him his cloak. “Otherwise there will be a rash of these disputes, I fear.” We walked out into the morning. The rain had stopped. He gave me the kiss of farewell and swung up onto his horse; Daoíre and the bodyguards were already mounted.

  “Stop,” Ruar said, looking down
the track and the long valley. I followed his eyes: two horses and riders approached. Druise and Gwenna. “We will wait,” he said. Daoíre made a sound of protest.

  “I am the Teannasach, cousin,” Ruar said mildly. “The Eirënnen in question can wait another day for their hearing, if I so choose. But I do not; we will ride in only a few minutes more. Be patient.”

  Gwenna halted her mare, Druise behind her as befitted his role as her guard. She did not dismount: Ruar had stayed in the saddle. “My lady Gwenna,” Ruar said. “Be welcome. I am sorry I will have no chance to speak with you, but my duty lies elsewhere.”

  “Teannasach,” she said. “I thank you for your hospitality. I regret too that we will not have time to speak together.” Mud-spattered or not, she was flawlessly correct; she had been well-taught, at home and at the White Fort. I watched them: Ruar in his prime, the resemblance to Donnalch evident in hair and the shape of his face, but he had his mother’s blue eyes, and her slightness of build. I remembered him at thirteen, grim-faced, wielding a sword beside me against the Marai. He had earned the men of Linrathe’s loyalty that day, nearly fifteen years ago. Gwenna, not yet fully grown, carried herself with confidence.

  “Your parents?” Ruar asked. “They are well?”

  “Quite well,” she answered. “And the Lady Helvi and your children?”

  “Looking forward to meeting you,” Ruar said. “And now I must go. Druisius, welcome. You are a guest here, not a guard; my men will ensure no harm comes to Gwenna.” With a raised hand, he urged his horse forward along the track. I turned to Druise and Gwenna.

  “Leave your horses and your bags,” I said. “They will be taken care of.”

  “Not my cithar,” Druise said. He removed it from his saddlebag before allowing the servants to take them. I led them into the great hall, where the steward met us.

  “I will take the lady Gwenna to the women’s rooms,” he said.

  “Go,” I said to her. “You will want to wash and change. I’ll show Druise to his room.”

  “She was in tears earlier,” he said, with no preamble, as soon as the door to his room was shut. “I had her wash her face at a stream.”