Empire's Reckoning

by Marian L Thorpe

  “He must,” Druise agreed. “He will not have told you, amané; he tells none of us all the parts of his designs, so we cannot be complicit if the charge of treason comes.”

  “Even though we are,” I said. I sighed. My thoughts were no clearer. “I will write to him, letting him know Ruar has raised the issue.”

  “I will go to explain the cithar to Amlodd,” he said, “and send Gwenna to you.”

  She came in hugging herself. I stirred the fire and added a brick of peat, and made her sit by it, even though I did not think she was cold from the air of the room. “Shall I call for a hot drink?” I asked. She shook her head.

  “I feel like I don't know my father at all,” she said.

  “In a way, you don't,” I said. “This all happened a long time ago, leannan.”

  “But...was he like old Póli, who stumbles around and shakes and sees things?” Póli was a wanderer, lost to ale and cider, and fuisce when he could get it. I thought he might have been an aspiring scáeli once, but his stories made no sense.

  “No. Póli cannot, or hasn’t chosen to, break himself of his need for drink. Your father became dependent on poppy, yes, but he broke that dependency, and he has never once given in to the craving.”

  “Does he still want it?”

  “I don't know, Gwenna,” I said. “There is none at the Ti'ach. He asked for that. And you know how rarely he accepts any drug, willow-bark or valerian.” He had an exception to his strict self-restraint, but not one Gwenna needed to know.

  She nodded. “Mathàir gets irritated with him, when he is clearly in pain and won't even drink willow-bark tea.”

  “Did Druise tell you to whom your father made the vow that he would free himself of the drug?”

  “To my mother, I suppose.”

  “No, Gwenna. To you. Or to the child unborn, who turned out to be you.”

  “Oh,” she whispered. “Truly?”

  “Truly. He would not go through with the ceremony that would make you legitimate in the eyes of Linrathe unless his mind was clear, undrugged. He made the vow to do so in my presence, so there was a witness.”

  “They say at the White Fort that my parents only married because of me. Is that what they mean?”

  “Did you think it meant otherwise?”

  “I thought...that they wanted not to, but because of me, they had to.”

  I chose my words carefully. “Your mother had promised your father to swear any vow he wished, if they lived past the war, long before you were conceived. You complicated things a bit, I suppose; they might have waited until your father was stronger. But that is all.” A version of the truth. I had not answered her direct question once again, but as I could not know what her classmates had intended in what they said to her, I had not violated my oath.

  “Sorley? What did my parents vow, at their ceremony?”

  “It was fourteen years ago,” I said. “Let me think.” But my scáeli’s memory for words didn't fail me. “There was no land to consider, so the ceremony was nothing more than an affirmation of the vows your parents had made to each other before Turlo and Irmgard and I found them in those empty lands. Then they each answered 'yes' to a question from Dagney.” I could still hear her firm voice asking, 'Will you affirm to these witnesses your belief that your friendship, the love you share, and your trust in each other, will endure all things?' I told Gwenna the words. “When they exchanged the bracelets, the words said were 'In love and trust, I give to you the li'ítho.' That is all.”

  She looked at the fire. “Didn't it bother you, watching them marry?”

  “In what way, Gwenna?” She didn't answer. These past few days must have been difficult for her, I thought. I stood up, going to a sideboard where a wine jug stood. I poured two small cups, watered them. Gwenna took hers, but she didn't raise it to her lips. I took a sip of mine, putting it down on the low table. I wasn't going to play scáeli’s word games now. “Yes, it did bother me, a little, then.” Her face was still, her eyes wide and dark. “I think you have realized I love your father, Gwenna, and not just as a friend or a brother. I lost my heart to him watching him dance, the second night he was at Gundarstorp when I was sixteen. I was playing, but my eyes were on him. He looked over at me and smiled.” I smiled myself, the memory no longer painful. “Twenty-three years ago.”

  “I thought so,” she said. “But...Druise?”

  “I love him too,” I said. “It’s possible, you know.” Although the closest we ever came to acknowledging that was in the newer verses to my song. I smiled a little, remembering the first time I’d sung them to Druise. He had simply grinned, but he hadn’t denied their truth.

  “And everybody knows?”

  “Of course. Your mother has known since a few days after we met on the river, and Druise since our first night together. They’ve both been extraordinarily understanding.”

  “And... Athàir?”

  Careful, now, I told myself. “He knew that night. He didn’t encourage me, Gwenna, in the slightest. For me to show...longing...for another man would have meant disinheritance in Sorham, and immense shame for my family. So he kept his distance from me, hoping I would outgrow the love. That it was an infatuation, nothing more.”

  “But it wasn't.” She was smiling now, as if she were listening to a scáeli’s tale.

  “No. We couldn’t escape each other, on that small ship or in Casil, and over those weeks Cillian and I allowed ourselves to become friends. I accepted that he was vowed to your mother, and then I met Druise, and that helped. It was your father’s wish that we would all be together at the Ti'ach.”

  “The marriage bracelets were yours, weren’t they?”

  “They were. Brothers often give them, if their father is dead.”

  She didn’t answer, staring into the fire. I didn’t speak either, lost in memories of that night.

  I’d shown Cillian the li’ítho, asked him to accept them as a brother. He’d picked up the larger of the bracelets to examine its intricate woven strands. “Beautiful work. From Varsland?” he’d asked.

  “No. From a silversmith in Sorham.”

  “Lena might have baulked, were they Marai,” he’d said. “If she does not see them as jesses, if she will wear it, I will accept your li’ítho, and not just as a brother’s due.” He had looked up at me, his eyes dark in the lamplight. “It is not a brother who braves the underworld with only his instrument and his voice to bring another home.”

  “The Marai say it was,” I’d replied.

  “Not successfully.”

  “Nor was Oraiáphon.”

  “His music convinced the god. It was his own impatience that lost him his love. When you thought I was not following, when death seemed certain, you just kept singing, Lena tells me.”

  “To ease you, if you could hear me. To make you feel loved, and safe, so —” I hadn’t been able to go on, hot tears rising.

  “So I could sleep,” Cillian had said. “But I followed your voice past the sleep you were gentling me towards, and into the sleep of healing. I heard you that night, and the love with which you sang. I owe you my life, Sorley.”

  “I did it for Lena,” I’d answered. “Lena and your child.”

  “But not only.” He’d let the silver bracelet slide from his hand to the table again, gently. “It is not an hour for half-truths, is it?”

  I had swallowed, or tried to, my mouth dry. “No,” I’d said. “Perhaps not.” I’d reached my hand out to him, almost involuntarily. He’d taken it, entwining his long fingers with mine, raising it to his lips.

  “Lena is the greatest blessing of my life, and the greatest love. I will wear this bracelet as a symbol of my bond with her, but I will wear it for you, too. Never doubt that you too are loved, my lord Sorley.”

  I’d said his name, and then I’d leaned forward to kiss him. He’d allowed it, his fingers tightening on mine for a heartbeat. It had felt like a goodbye, and for me it had been, to the vestiges of a dream.

  “So
rley?” Gwenna’s voice broke my reverie. “You are very brave, aren’t you?”

  “Brave?” I said. “No. I have followed my heart, Gwenna, and that is a privilege allowed to few. If it is bravery you want, look to your parents.”

  Chapter 31

  We joined Druise and Amlodd in the great hall, where they were having a detailed discussion about the construction of their respective instruments. But how long can three musicians together simply talk? Amlodd found a ladhar for Gwenna, and we began to play. The steward came through once or twice, stopping to listen. We were just explaining a tuning to Gwenna — she was competent with the ladhar, but not inspired — when the doors to the hall swung open, the guard calling for the steward.

  Beside him stood a woman, cloaked and hooded — it must be raining again, I thought — and with her a girl, similarly attired. “May we go to the fire?” she asked the guard. A shiver ran through me. I knew that voice, or at least a younger version of it. I put down my instrument.

  “Jordis?”

  She pushed the hood back. “Sorley?” she breathed. Then she said my name again, and ran to me, throwing herself into my arms. I held her, ignoring her soaked cloak, feeling her body racked with sobs. How was she here? The Marai had taken her from the Ti'ach, fifteen years earlier; she and little Niav, Isa’s niece.

  I looked up, seeing the girl standing uncertainly beside a man I recognized. I'd taught him, the winter I had spent at Dugarstorp. The oldest son, known as Dugi. He'd be seventeen or eighteen, now.

  “You know this woman, Lord Sorley?” the steward asked me. I hadn't heard him come in.

  “I do,” I said. “This is the lady Jordis, daughter to Eirën Egan. She was a student at the Ti'ach na Perras with me. The Marai took her in the war.”

  Jordis stepped away from my arms. “And this is my daughter, Elsë,” she said, beckoning to the girl. She slipped an arm around her shoulder. “My...her father had brought us to the boy’s family for her marriage. There was a gathering, in celebration, and Dugi — the lord Dugi — was there, and he saw I was not Marai, although I do not know how, and approached me. I asked him to bring me home, and he did.”

  Dear gods, I thought. The diplomatic implications of what Dugi had done could be serious.

  “Gwenna,” I said in Casilan. “Go to Helvi. Explain who is here, and what has happened. You understand there may be repercussions from this?”

  “I will tell her a Marai’s captive wife, an Eirën’s daughter, has fled her husband, and a lord from Sorham has aided her,” she said, in the same language.

  “Correct.”

  “What language was that?” Jordis said, clearly bewildered. “And who is the girl? There is something familiar about her.”

  “Much has happened, Jordis,” I said, helping her take off her wet cloak. I gave her wine, and at her nod a cup for Elsë too. “I was speaking Casilan, as it should be spoken, not as Perras taught us. The girl is Gwenna. She is Cillian’s daughter.”

  “Cillian’s daughter? But who is her mother?” I laughed, gently, at the genuine surprise in her voice.

  “Lena. Do you remember her?”

  “Yes,” she said slowly. “They were exiled together. Are they home again?”

  “A long story,” I told her. “Not one for now.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Tell me, Sorley. I want to hear about home. Elsë, come and listen.”

  “There is a danta,” I told her. “I’ll sing it for you, later, if you like, but there isn’t time now to tell you everything. Suffice it to say the Emperor pardoned both Cillian and Lena. Cillian is Comiádh now. Perras died fifteen years ago, and Dagney eight. Lena is Lady of the Ti'ach. They have two children, Gwenna and Colm. And I am the music teacher there, and a scáeli. Isa and Anndra are still with us, and will be overjoyed to hear you are alive.” I gestured to Druise. “And this is Druise — ­Druisius, I should say — from Casil in the Eastern Empire, Jordis. He teaches at the Ti'ach too.”

  She smiled at his greeting, but I could tell her thoughts were elsewhere. “Isa and Anndra,” she said. “Niav is dead, Sorley. She died giving birth, and the child with her. She was too small, too young.”

  I closed my eyes against the news. Little Niav, full of questions, turning everything into a song. Hatred for the Marai welled from wherever I had hidden it, deep inside. “Oh, Jordis,” I said. “But perhaps it will give some peace to Isa, to at least know her fate.”

  The guard by the door straightened. Helvi came into the hall, Gwenna behind her. Jordis scrambled to her feet, pulling her daughter up. Bearing and dress had told Jordis who this was, I guessed.

  “My lady Helvi,” I said. “May I introduce the lady Jordis of Eganstorp, and her daughter Elsë? She asks for sanctuary from her daughter’s father. Lord Dugi has brought her from Varsland.”

  “My dear,” Helvi said. “You are wet, and no doubt cold. Will you come with me to the women’s rooms? We will find dry clothes for you both. Gwenna, will you come too? I guess that Elsë speaks no Linrathan?”

  “No, my lady,” Jordis said.

  “Then we had best speak Marái’sta, hadn't we?” she said, switching to that language. Jordis glanced at me.

  “Go,” I said. “You are safe.” She must have known Ruar had married a Marai bride, I thought. Whatever remote farm or village her Marai captor had taken her to, that news would have spread through the kingdom.

  “Dugi,” I said when they had gone. “You do know how serious this may be?”

  “And how are you, Sorley?” he replied.

  “Sorry,” I said. “But there is little time for pleasantries. The Teannasach left for the coast this morning. He must be apprised. Tell me who the man who took Jordis was, and who the girl was to marry. And how did you recognize Jordis as Linrathan?”

  “Wine would be welcome,” he said, coming over to the fire. I gave him a cup. “As for how I recognized her,” he said after a mouthful, “she was humming to herself when I happened to be close. The tune was yours, the one you wrote for Halmar’s poem.”

  War in winter sends sorrow soaring... I had written the tune for Cillian, for his translation of the poem, when I was eighteen. I had taught it to Dugi and Gefen, his brother, when I was their tutor.

  “The man?”

  “Eluf. A farmer, from all I've heard. The boy Elsë was to marry is the son of a man who deals in fish. He’s wealthy: the business does well, and he has a fleet of boats. I was there to make an agreement over some of our catch, in fact.”

  “Is either family close to any of the earls?”

  “They'll owe duty to someone. The merchant...Earl Gosta, I think. Don't know about Eluf.” He drained his cup. “Gosta’s lands are mostly coastal, and his people fishermen. He’s cautious in declaring allegiance. Canny. Markets matter more to him than who sits on the throne, I'd say.”

  “So unlikely to send men after the girl?” I asked.

  “I doubt it. There’s no shortage of girls to marry a rich man’s heir,” he said. So unless Eluf had connections, Jordis and her daughter were likely safe.

  “Where will she go?” Dugi asked.

  “I don't know,” I admitted. “Her father and brother died in the war. The lands are in the hands of her uncle now; the Teannasach may need to decide.” I turned to Amlodd, who had been sitting quietly, listening. Remembering what was being said and done, as his role required. “Amlodd? How is Eganstorp held? In trust, or were the lands ceded?”

  “Ceded, after seven years,” he replied.

  I should have known that. “Can she stay here?”

  “For a while, yes. Helvi will offer, I have no doubt.”

  “Or,” I said, thinking out loud, “she could go to the Ti'ach. It’s familiar to her, and isolated, and guarded, if that were ever important.”

  “Sorley!” Druise said in Casilan. “You cannot send a woman perhaps chased by Marai men to the Ti'ach. It puts Lena in danger.”

  “She is unlikely to be pursued,” I said.

  Druise compress
ed his lips. “No,” he said. “I will not allow it.”

  I stared at my lover, and he stared back, his jaw set. I looked away.

  “Their protection is my job,” he said quietly.

  “Yes,” I said. “I know. But Jordis was my friend, and both Lena and Cillian know her. If I write to them, and they say yes, what do you say?”

  “Lena is the senior captain,” he said. “If she says yes, then I must. Although,” he added, “I would argue with her, were I there. Is there space in your letter for my thoughts?”

  “Yes. Of course. Or write your own, and I will include in with mine under the Teannasach’s seal. We will let Lena decide.” He nodded, his lips still tight. We rarely argued, but the safety of our family and the Ti’ach was his responsibility, and I should have spoken to him before making the suggestion. I would apologize privately.

  Chapter 32

  Later I spoke alone with Dugi, for more information on the men involved with Jordis and Elsë. I should tell Cillian and Lena as much as possible, so Lena could make an appropriate decision. He had little to add about the man who had taken Jordis, but much more about the bridegroom and his family. “There’s a daughter,” he said. “My father is considering offering for her; he thinks a connection to Varsland’s fish trade could be valuable.”

  “For you or Gefen?” I asked.

  “Gefen. I inherit the torp; he'll need something.”

  Always the way, for second sons; sometimes there was a torp with only daughters to make an alliance with, or the army, or for some the path of a scholar or a scáeli. And some crossed the narrow sea to take the coin of the Marai.

  I wrote my letter. Then I went to find Jordis. “She has eaten and bathed,” Helvi told me, and she’s sitting quietly now, resting.” She opened the door to a small sitting room. “In here.”

  Jordis was watching Gwenna combing Elsë’s hair in front of the fire, her movements gentle. I supposed she had done this with the other girls at the Ti'ach, or at the White Fort. “Sorley,” Jordis said as I came in. “Of all the people to find. Why are you here?” She looked tired, but much of the tension had gone from her. “I am so glad you are.”