Empire's Reckoning

by Marian L Thorpe

  I sat beside her. “Do you remember me saying I am a scáeli now? The Ti'acha are expanding, Jordis, into Sorham and into Ésparias.” She frowned at that.

  “Ésparias?”

  “The land south of the Wall. Casil renamed it, when they reclaimed it as a part of the Eastern Empire. One of many changes there.”

  “You are going to explain all this?”

  “In time. But to answer your question, as scáeli to the Ti’ach na Cillian, I am travelling north to the newest Ti'ach, to ensure the music program is properly organized. I had business with the Teannasach, so we stopped here for a day or two.”

  “The Ti'ach na Cillian,” she said. “It sounds so strange. Do not mistake me, Gwenna,” she added, seeing her look up. “I can think of no one better than your father to succeed Perras. But I have thought of it with its previous name for all these years.”

  “I must ask, Jordis. Will Elsë’s father come after you, or her?” I asked. “Or the bridegroom?”

  “Eluf? No. Not after me. But perhaps after her. It was a good marriage.” We were speaking Linrathan, so the girl could not understand. “There are two boys, too: younger, and Eluf thought perhaps one would be taken into the business.”

  “Where are the boys?”

  “At the farm. They’re not mine. Something went wrong after Elsë. I was ill with a fever and a flux that caused great pain here — “she touched herself, low on her belly — “and after that I did not conceive. He has another woman.”

  “Are you his wife?” I asked.

  “There was some ceremony, so in his eyes, yes. The other woman is another captive, from the Southern Empire. Ésparias,” she corrected.

  “Her name?” Her answer meant nothing to me, but it might to Lena.

  “I’m sending letters to the Ti'ach, to ask if you may go there for a while,” I told her. Gwenna straightened, looked my way. I told Jordis, as gently as I could, why she could not just go home.

  “All dead?” Tears welled. She brushed them away. “My uncle will not want me. The Ti'ach would be a refuge, for a while. But what will I do, Sorley? No man will want me; I am barren, and I have no lands to offer. And no skills beyond that of house and farm, now.”

  “My mother,” Gwenna said, “could use help this summer. She is Lady of the Ti'ach, and if you were there you will know what that entails. But she also teaches, the bow and secca, and some aspects of the danta, and she will insist on riding patrol, with Druise gone. If you were there, you could help with the students, and lessen her work. Why cannot Jordis and Elsë just go, Sorley?”

  “Druise forbade it,” I told her.

  “Why? — oh,” she said. “I see.”

  “Who is Druisius?” Jordis asked. “And patrols? And the Ti'acha do not teach the use of weapons.”

  “They do, since the war,” I said. “Druisius is a captain in Ésparias’s army. His responsibilities include the protection of the Ti'ach. Lena killed Fritjof, Jordis. Did you not know that?”

  “Oh. No. I didn't know.”

  “With a bow, from horseback,” Gwenna said. “A long shot, halfway across a river, and the arrow hit him in the neck. She was pregnant with me, at the time.”

  “Then I can’t go to the Ti'ach,” Jordis said. “I might be a danger to her.”

  “It will be her decision,” I said. “Druise forbids you to go now, but Lena outranks him. If a letter comes saying you may, then you shall, if you wish.”

  “Outranks him? She is still in the army, then?”

  “Yes. Her rank is captain too, but she is the senior, seconded to the Ti'ach to teach weaponry, officially.”

  “A high rank to teach weaponry,” Jordis said. Fifteen years of captivity had not completely dulled her mind.

  “She has other duties,” I said. Personal bodyguard was one of them, but Jordis did not need to know that. Or did she? I doubted Lena and Cillian would turn Jordis away, but I would not be here to find out. And wherever she went, she would soon hear the tale.

  “Gwenna,” I said. “An opportunity to practice some of your diplomatic skills. Would you introduce yourself to the lady Jordis, as you would if you met her at Wall’s End?”

  “At Wall’s End?” Her eyes flicked from me to Jordis. “At a formal occasion?”

  “Yes, if you will.”

  She shot me a look of displeasure, but she rose in one fluid move to stand in front of Jordis. “I am so very pleased you could join us, Lady Jordis,” she said. “I am Gwenna. My father is Cillian, prince of Ésparias.”

  “Prince of Ésparias?” Jordis said. “But... How? Cillian?”

  “His father was the Emperor,” I said. “You did hear that?”

  “Yes. But still...” Her face reflected her bewilderment, trying to adjust to the idea that the sardonic, distant teacher she had known was now a prince. An Ésparian prince, but also Comiádh of a Linrathan Ti'ach. It was a lot to take in, all at once.

  “It was the Empress Eudekia,” Gwenna said. “She made him a prince, because he should have been Callan’s heir. It makes me a princess, but I do not like to be called that at all. And in Linrathe, I am only Gwenna, so please do not call me anything else. Please?”

  “How old are you, Gwenna?” Jordis asked.

  “Fourteen.”

  “Much the same as my daughter. The Marai believe that is old enough to wed. Your people do not, if I remember rightly...but there is no marriage, in the southern Empire, is there? Then how are your parents married? Have things changed?”

  “They have,” I said, glad the questions had been directed to Gwenna. “Or at least they are changing. When Casil agreed to support us against Fritjof, Ésparias agreed to live by their laws, ending the Partition agreement. Some men and women marry now, but it is far from all. Some women’s villages were rebuilt, and still keep to the old tradition of Festival. But children, boys or girls, now stay with their parents until twelve, and choose an apprenticeship then.”

  “Even you, Gwenna?” Jordis asked.

  “Yes. I am an officer cadet at the White Fort. I am not quite decided on my future; either the army, like my mother, or diplomacy, like my father. I think it will be the latter, but I have two more years in which to consider. Officers and diplomats learn together until we are sixteen.”

  “I always thought of Cillian as a teacher,” Jordis said. “I knew he was also a toscaire, but was that not mostly the gathering of opinions for the Teannasach?”

  “That is what he would have had us believe,” I said. “You remember he would never talk about what he did as a toscaire?”

  “He would rarely talk about anything,” Jordis said, “unless it was our course of study. What was he doing, then?”

  A direct question. “Negotiating, mostly about the tribute agreement between Varsland and Linrathe regarding Sorham, and other things related to that. He spent more time in Varsland than any of us knew, even Perras, I think.”

  “But he went to Casil, with my mother, and Sorley, and a general who is dead now,” Gwenna said, “and he made the treaty with them that saved Ésparias and Linrathe. Then after the war, when the Eastern Empire wanted Ésparias to follow all their laws and their rules on how we should live, he made them change their minds. On some of it, anyhow.” She was trying to speak neutrally, I could see, but her pride in her father shone through. “Even though he wasn't well enough, or so my mother says.”

  Jordis looked at me quizzically. “He was badly wounded, at the battle of the Taiva,” I told her. If she were to go to the Ti'ach, she had better know. “Very badly. In his leg and back. His ability to walk is limited, and he is often in pain.”

  “I see,” she said.

  I laughed a little at her confusion. “Tonight,” I promised, “I’ll play the danta that tells all our adventures, and you will be a little less bewildered.”

  After the evening meal, we again gathered in the hall. “This is a long song,” I told everyone, my fingers plucking notes softly. “I’ll sing a few verses, then just the tune for a
minute or two, to allow Gwenna to tell the story to Elsë. Now, listen,” I spoke the formal, opening words. “This is a story of great deeds and great valour, and it began...”

  The song took some time. I chose the simplest of several endings for the danta, the one which told only of victory and peace, Gwenna’s birth representing hope and renewal. The last notes fell into silence before I spoke again. “My tale is told.”

  “Our thanks, Lord Sorley,” Helvi said, formally.

  “You were all so brave,” Jordis said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Bravery comes in many forms,” Gwenna said, unexpectedly. “My mother told me that once. She said Casyn said it to her, when she was only a few years older than I am now. You have been brave, too, lady Jordis.”

  “You are kind,” Jordis murmured.

  “It is time to retire,” Helvi said. “Sorley, are you leaving in the morning?”

  “Unless there is heavy rain,” I said. “But there’s little urgency, except to leave in time to reach a torp for the night. Mid-morning will be soon enough.”

  “Then I’ll see you at breakfast.” We said our goodnights, Gwenna leaving with the women. Druise took my ladhar along with his own instrument, leaving me with Amlodd.

  “My thanks for allowing us to play,” I said, as I must. He nodded.

  “Will I see you at Faolyn and Siusàn’s wedding? I understand I am to preside.”

  “Not if Cillian attends,” I said. “We can’t all leave the Ti'ach. But if he doesn’t, then likely Lena and I will.” If he did, I thought, he would be in immense pain upon reaching Wall’s End. Apulo would have to go too, Apulo and Druise. But that could be decided at the end of the summer. “Good night, Amlodd.”

  He smiled. “I am glad to have finally met your Casilani. A fine musician. Good night, Sorley.”

  Torches flickered along the corridor to my room. I closed the door quietly, sliding the bolt home. A flask of wine sat on the table. I picked it up, and the two cups, before opening the door that led into Druise’s room. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, playing very quietly.

  “Wine?” I asked.

  “I hoped you had been given some,” he replied. “I had not. Ale only.” He laid the cithar aside.

  “I should have asked for wine for you,” I said, pouring a cup.

  “No. Wine is not appropriate for a bodyguard, even if I am an officer.” I knew it didn't bother him. He took an appreciative sip.

  “I'm sorry I argued with you this morning,” I said, sitting beside him.

  “The woman and her daughter are a risk. But there is another concern, yes? The Marai that are at the Ti’ach — would they take her husband’s side?”

  I hadn’t even thought of them, in my wish to send Jordis somewhere she would feel safe. But a wife fleeing a husband could not become an incident involving two — or three — countries, disrupting a dozen years and more of patient, secret negotiation.

  “No,” I admitted, “I’m not. Better they stay here, then.”

  Druise drank. “It is for Lena to decide. The letters were sent?”

  “Yes. I saw the steward seal them, and the messenger he gave them to rode out in the early afternoon.”

  “Good,” he said. He leant over to kiss me, the stubble of his beard rough against my own. He tasted of wine. I broke off the kiss to drain my own cup. My lips moved to his neck, knowing after fifteen years together exactly what excited him. He pushed me down onto the bed, laughing deep in his throat. “Would your friend be shocked?” he asked.

  “I don't know,” I said. “I don't care. Stop talking, Druise.”

  Chapter 33

  14 years earlier

  “If you’re leaving tomorrow, will you ride with me today?” Lena asked, on a sunny, still morning. The first purple of the heather had begun to colour the hills, and the air was crisp. A year ago, we had been preparing for war.

  “I should attempt to ride again soon,” Cillian said, from where he sat holding Gwenna. We’d breakfasted together, as we did now often: still a wonder to me, after the night I had gone to Cillian, angrier than I had ever let myself be. I had expected that anger to finish our friendship. Instead, we were closer, the three of us, than we had been since Casil.

  “Ride?” Lena asked. “Is that wise?”

  “Gnaius approves, with certain restrictions,” Cillian said, holding Gwenna upright on his lap. “A placid horse, a mounting block, and no more than a few minutes at a slow walk to begin. And, yes, käresta, I will accept a little cannabium, at least at first. But I may need to ride in the future, and better my leg and back are prepared.”

  “I suppose,” she said doubtfully.

  “Talyn has offered to supervise,” he said. “Will you trust me to her? No, mo nihéan gràhadh, do not pull my hair.” He untangled Gwenna’s tiny fingers gently, eliciting a wail of frustration.

  “I’ll take her,” Tyrvi said, coming out from the nursery. “May I go to Berge today with the babies, Lena?”

  “Of course. But I am off duty all day, so perhaps you could bring Gwenna back late in the morning?”

  “Or we could ride over and bring her back, so Tyrvi and Darel can stay there,” I suggested.

  “We’ll do that,” Lena decided. She bent to kiss Cillian. “What are you discussing today?”

  “Altars.”

  “Altars? To what? Or should I say to whom?”

  “Casil’s gods. They must be honoured, Livius says. At the forts, and in Casilla, and eventually throughout Ésparias. But the forts first.”

  “Shall I devote myself to their huntress goddess again?” Lena said with a grin. “I should, I suppose. I did pray to her, before I loosed the arrow that killed Fritjof.”

  “I will ask for a shrine to her, then,” Cillian said, his voice light. He would not ask for the darkest god to be acknowledged, I knew. He had found other ways to make his offering of thanks or supplication. Not thoughts for daylight and sunshine, I told myself, and turned to Lena.

  “I’ll meet you at the stables. Your mare?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sorley,” Cillian said softly. I glanced at the nursery door: closed. I crossed the room to drop a kiss on his forehead. He smiled up at me. “Enjoy the day. You will have little relaxation at Dun Ceànnar, I imagine.”

  We rode quite a way along the Wall, and then, because there was nothing now to stop us, crossed over into Linrathe at a guardpost and spent an hour or two among its hills and moorland, for no other reason than we could. I taught Lena some of the names of plants and birds in my language, and we didn’t talk of treaties or negotiations or politics, or even Cillian. Only when we reluctantly turned for home did Lena bring the conversation back to the immediate.

  “Druise,” she said. “He’ll be home soon.”

  “I know.”

  “And?”

  “He will not have slept alone,” I said bluntly. “He was clear about that, before he left.”

  “So? Neither did I, before I left Tirvan and on the road south, and yet I was seeking Maya. Nor have you. But grace notes do not make a melody, do they? And you and he do make good music together.”

  I laughed. “We do,” I admitted. “I don’t know, Lena. I suppose I won’t know, until he is here and we have talked.”

  We saluted the guard who opened the gate for us and rode back into Ésparias. The sun was tipping toward afternoon when we reached Berge, and my stomach was growling. Outside Kyreth’s house we dismounted. I held the horses while Lena went in to fetch Gwenna.

  She was out again in a moment, Kyreth with her. “Tyrvi’s not here,” she said. “Nor has she been.”

  “But we saw her walking with the babies as we left the fort,” I said. “Where was she going, then?”

  “Maybe just along the beach?” Lena said. “Perhaps Gwenna was fussing; she is teething. So Tyrvi may have changed her mind.”

  But she wasn’t in their rooms, either, and Apulo hadn’t seen her. Apprehension tightened my gut. “Lena, a few we
eks ago, I met Tyrvi coming back from Berge. I carried Gwenna home, do you remember?”

  “Yes.” She was pacing, tension in every fibre of her being.

  “I called Gwenna ‘princess’, teasingly, and Tyrvi grew angry. She said it wasn’t right; that in the women’s villages, girl children belonged to their mothers.”

  “And?”

  “And once before she told me the babies were needed, because so many people had died. Would she — could she have taken her? Away from Berge, I mean?”

  Lena swore, and then she began to run. I followed, sprinting to the stables with her. “A horse,” she shouted as she grew close. I repeated her call. “No,” she said. “I know where she’s gone. Stay here. Don’t let Apulo tell Cillian.” She was up on the horse almost before the cadet had the girth tightened, kicking it into a gallop.

  “Saddle a horse for me,” I told the girl. “I’ll be back for it, soon.”

  I jogged back to the fort. I found Apulo, told him what Lena had said. “Say nothing,” I repeated. “But find Gnaius, and tell him that the baby is missing, and we think Tyrvi has taken her. Tell him he might be needed.” I didn’t know what Apulo had been told about the weeks when Cillian could not function without poppy, and the cravings that still challenged him, sometimes.

  “I understand,” Apulo said. I had to trust he did. I collected the horse the stable cadet had waiting for me, and rode for Berge.

  A group of women stood on the jetty. I joined them. “Lena?” I asked.

  Kyreth pointed at a boat already well out from the shore. “One of the little boats is missing. We think Tyrvi took it.”

  “But where is she going?”

  “Tirvan, Lena thinks.”

  “Gods.” Lena had no experience with the currents and shoals of the coast this far north. “Who went with her?”

  “She wouldn’t let anyone. Said the boat would be faster if she went alone,” someone said.

  I waited with the women as the sun moved inexorably toward the western horizon. In mid-afternoon I noticed eyes looking repeatedly to the sky north of us, and I turned to see clouds, heavy and grey, building over Linrathe. The wind had picked up, northerly and off the land; a boat returning from the south would have to tack against it in a rough sea.