“Yew,” she said, running a hand along its curves. “And the jewels, Sorley? I have never seen their like.” She passed the instrument to Amlodd. “Look at them,” she said. “Tiny, exquisite musicians, carved into the stone.”
“Carnelian, I am told,” I said. “From Casil.”
“They grace a fine instrument,” Bhradaín said, when he took the ladhar from Amlodd. He plucked a string, listening to its resonance. “Very fine.”
I murmured words of thanks. “Now, Sorley,” Dagney began. She would dismiss me, while they conferred. Perhaps I would go to the kitchen and let Isa fuss over me. My neck and shoulders ached. I turned to go.
“Wait,” Dagney said. She looked from Bhradaín to Amlodd. Both were smiling. I saw each nod.
“Was there ever any doubt?” Bhradaín asked, sounding amused. Dagney laughed.
“None at all,” she said. “Come back, Sorley. We will officially welcome you to the scáeli'en once you are free of your toscaire’s oath. You cannot do both, as you must know.”
“I am honoured,” I said, “that you have found me worthy.”
“You should have been one of us several years ago,” Dagney said. “May I say that while we have had, over the years, several tunes from south of the Wall sung as part of the recital, this is the first time we have heard Casilani songs. But what was that last?”
“A song of the Kurzemë people, who live in the foothills of the Durrains, on the eastern side,” I told her. “A mid-winter’s petition to the sun.” She raised an eyebrow, but she said nothing further. My danta had told them of Lena and Cillian’s winter there. Bhradaín asked a few questions about Casilani music. Then Amlodd, reaching for his instrument, asked me to teach him the tune that went with Halmar’s poem.
“And I,” Bhradaín said, and we were just four musicians together, sharing one of the passions of our lives.
Later, after food, Amlodd came to sit beside me, his wine cup in his hand. “The Teannasach must release you from your toscaire’s duties as soon as he can,” he said. “Dagney will write the letter, and Bhradaín will deliver it. He is expecting it, of course.”
“Daoíre will take over,” I said. “How are you, Amlodd?” I asked, in a different tone.
“Very well. What will you do now?”
“I have a message to take to the Sterre, and then I’ll go to Dun Ceànnar, to resign as toscaire effective whenever Ruar allows,” I told him. When might that be? I had promised my help in regaining Sorham.
“Back to Wall’s End, then?” he said. “Dagney said you still had much to learn from a Casilani musician stationed there.”
“Druisius is a fine musician,” I said, not confirming or denying his supposition. “He taught me the cithar, and the Casilani songs I played today.”
“An instrument I would like a better look at. Would you show me privately, later?”
“No,” I said gently.
“I thought not,” he said, without bitterness. “Your Casilani, or your dancer?”
A direct question. I wasn’t truly a scáeli yet, but still... I hesitated. “There is no dancer,” I said. Not a lie. Cillian would never dance again.
“A toscaire’s answer,” he said, “but a scáeli’s, too. I won't press you.”
“And you? “ I asked.
“In Linrathe? Welcomes here and there. You may hear soon that I have accepted an extended stay at a certain torp. The Harr appreciates my skills, and wandering is growing tiresome.”
Chapter 39
I sat alone with Dagney in her room, drinking tea. It was very late, and she looked weary, slumping just a little in her chair. How old was she? Well into her sixties, I guessed.
“My dear, I must say this,” she said, a smile on her lips. “Your playing has matured considerably. Druisius is very skilled with his cithar; is this his influence?”
“I suppose it must be,” I answered. Not a lie. Play, Druise had said, handing me my instrument, that terrible night Gnaius had said Cillian would die. Better than shouting. Use your anger, amané. He may hear it, yet. I had played, in love and anguish and to petition whatever gods there were, and when I could play no longer, I had sung. Something from that night had stayed with me, Cillian’s life not the only gift granted, perhaps.
“Did Lena teach you the Kurzemë song?” Dagney asked. “I had not thought her particularly musical.”
“She isn’t. Cillian taught me.”
“Cillian? But he would never sing, beyond what I insisted upon.”
“He sings to Gwenna,” I told her. “Music has become more important to him.”
She straightened. “Three — no, four, if I include the Kurzemë song — involved him in some way. Sorley, I would not say this in front of the others, but I heard the pain as you sang. What is wrong, my dear? Has living with him become too difficult for you?”
I started to shake my head. Then I stopped. “Yes,” I said. “But not for the reasons you might think. Dagney, when did Cillian become bitter? He wasn’t always that way, was he?”
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “I thought he had found a certain contentment in his work, in the years after he left the Ti’ach. Then one year he returned — he had been away a long time — and something had changed. He was detached, and more ascetic, I would say. Denying himself pleasures of almost any sort, except scholarship.”
“How old was he?”
She thought back. “It was the year Ingold’s daughter left us. I remember that, because I had thought, once,” she smiled, “as mothers do, that she might be a match for him. But he never showed a flicker of interest. So he would have been twenty-six, almost twenty-seven.”
“Was that when he began to hate the Empire?”
“Yes,” she said. “He had not seemed to, before, but he began to speak more of his unknown father, and his irresponsibility. I thought perhaps his bastardry had been raised again, by Donnalch, or some Harr, but he would tell me nothing more. What has this to do with you and Cillian, Sorley?”
“It is not mine to tell,” I said, the formal words. She gave me a measured look.
“Do I need to worry?”
“Not for him.” The fire glowed in the silent room. My mind whirled. “You are tired,” I said. “I will leave you.”
“Sleep well, scáeli Sorley,” she said. Standing, I bent to kiss her cheek. “My lady,” I replied, the title doubly appropriate now from me: she was Lady of this Ti’ach, and head of the scáeli’en council. Her eyes were on the fire, distant, lost in thought, when I closed the door quietly behind me.
Just inside the annex I paused. Amlodd’s room was down the hall. I felt a tug of temptation, in gratitude and celebration, and perhaps to briefly silence the confusion that warred inside me. But no. I walked as silently as I could to the door to Cillian’s room, opening it slowly. I put the candle on the desk and knelt in front of the chest. I removed the few items that remained to pull open the false floor. The diaries were dated. I sorted through them, found the right year, opened it. Glancing at headings, I forced myself not to read the entries, until I found the one entitled Gundarstorp. I skimmed over the first paragraphs, a summary of his discussions with my father. Below those, and separate, was what I searched for.
Catilius writes often of what he learned from his father, Cillian had written in Casilan, in his precise hand. I had thought I could not emulate him in this, but it appears I can. One thing my unknown father taught me, indirectly: not to give in to desire when doing so has consequences for the one desired. Had he had a stronger character, I would not be here to write this.
I must acknowledge two things: he was much younger than I am now, and, if I am fair, I must also acknowledge that had the encounter tonight with the young musician gone further than a brief touch and a few words, I doubt my own strength of character. I hope I have averted the damage threatened.
I am forsworn, my word broken. I saw no choice. What has more value, a vow, or the life of the young man? I will balance the broken oath with anoth
er: to protect him, as best I can.
He will not understand why I turned away. Time will lessen his confusion and disappointment, I hope.
I closed the book. Disgust at what I had done was all I felt, disgust and a hollow, gaping loss. I put the diary back, dropped the false floor back in place, piled the blankets on top. Lowering the lid, I stood. Then I looked again at the chest. The journal from the year I came to the Ti’ach would be there, too.
No, I told myself firmly. Do not add to your trespass. You have the confirmation you sought.
I stared at the random pinpricks of light behind my closed lids until a fitful sleep claimed me in the early hours. I woke to the same numb blankness, an unwillingness to think. You are a scáeli, I reminded myself, but the thought brought no joy.
Over breakfast I managed a credible semblance of happiness, keeping the talk to music and poetry. “Are you riding north today?” I asked Bhradaín. He would need to go home to Dun Ceànnar, to officiate in the rites of burial for Liam. By tradition, the burial would be for the men of the family only, so I wasn’t expected to attend, but it would be impolite if I didn’t ask to ride north with him. Toscairen and scáeli’en often kept each other company on the road.
“Not today,” he said. “Bones as old as mine need a drier day to be out, or there will be another burial. The weather will change tomorrow; I’ll ride then.”
“I am staying too,” Amlodd said. “I’ll take the opportunity to share music with Bhradaín and Dagney while I can. Won’t you wait, Sorley?”
“I can’t,” I said, hoping I sounded regretful. “The message to the Sterre should not be delayed.”
“Come to my rooms,” Dagney said, “before you go.”
I expected questions, but she asked nothing, only offering a long, tight embrace. “You are always welcome here, Sorley, for a night or for as long as you wish.”
Under my hands her shoulder blades jutted. Too thin, I thought. A lonely life here, now. “Thank you,” I murmured.
“Whatever troubles you,” she said abruptly, “he is worthy of your love, Sorley. Or I am wrong, and Lena, and Perras was, and I think it unlikely we could all be mistaken.”
A laugh strangled itself in my throat. If they knew... “But am I worthy of his? Ask him, the next time you are together, what I cost him.” I freed my arms. “I must go. May I leave my new ladhar here, Dagney? I don’t want to risk it on the road if I don’t need to.”
“Of course. I will keep it until you return.” She reached up to kiss my cheek. “Go safely.”
Chapter 40
15 years after the battle of the Taiva
Before we left Dun Ceànnar the next morning, Helvi took me aside. “The lady Jordis can stay here, if she cannot go to the Ti'ach,” she told me.
“And if Lena writes to say 'yes', someone will escort her?”
“Two guards, at least,” she promised.
Parting meant a long embrace for Jordis, and a smile for Elsë. “Do not worry,” I told the girl in Marái’sta. “You are safe here.” They watched us mount. Our fickle weather had turned, and the day was as sunny as anyone could have hoped. It could well be raining again by mid-day, but I rolled up my cloak and stuffed it in a saddlebag, enjoying the sun’s warmth. Gwenna hadn’t worn hers, but Druise left his on; he and I had different opinions on what ‘warm’ meant.
We rode south again until the long track that followed the valley met the wider road running northward to the Sterre. There was no other way to leave Dun Ceànnar, not on horseback: the house sat on the southward facing slope where the valley suddenly ended, and above it, along the crest of the hills, a wall and guardposts protected it. The greater threat had always been from the north.
“Elsë told me that among the farms and villages where she grew up, there are many men who wish that Fritjof still led them,” Gwenna said suddenly. “That they liked raiding and fighting.”
“Was her father one of them?” I asked.
“Yes. At least when he had been drinking, she said. Are they a threat, Sorley?”
“Possibly. That there are men who think this way is not unknown to either the Teannasach or the Princip, and we’re keeping an eye on them,” I told her. Did this increase the chances that Eluf would come after Elsë? I glanced at Druise. His eyes were narrowed: he was wondering the same thing, I thought.
“We?”
“Ésparias and Linrathe. Faolyn and Ruar.”
“And you and Athàir.”
“We advise our respective leaders, yes. You know that.”
“But do you go to Varsland? Like Athàir did?”
“No. Nor has your father, for at least twenty years,” I said. “Others provide the information, Gwenna. All I and Cillian do is help interpret what’s learned.”
“What did he do in Varsland? You said he was toscaire to the people of Linrathe. Why would he go there?”
I’d been expecting this: I knew she’d heard the exchange between Jordis and me. I was just glad she hadn’t asked yesterday.
“Are his travels there widely known?” she went on. “Is that why some of my classmates say the Marai invasion was his fault?”
“What?” I said.
“Who says that?” Druise demanded.
“Cadets. Not in front of others. Just to me.”
I sighed. “No, it is not widely known he went to Varsland. There is a way your father’s actions could be interpreted as precipitating the Marai invasion, yes. But neither Callan, nor Casyn, nor Ruar ever accepted that. Nor I,” I added. “It was Ruar’s uncle, Lorcann, who invited the Marai. Fritjof had promised him something: the lands south of the Wall, we think, and so he welcomed him. He used Callan’s decision to sentence your father to exile, rather than death, for violating the terms of the truce between Linrathe and Ésparias as the excuse to side with Fritjof. But if it hadn’t been that, it would have been something else.”
She nodded. Nothing more was said. We rode steadily north, the day remaining sunny, the breeze warm. After another hour, we halted to let the horses drink and to attend to our own needs. When Gwenna returned from around a small hill, Druise went to speak to her. I saw him put his arm around her shoulders. I wondered what he was saying to her.
What would she think when she learned why Cillian had crossed the narrow sea at Liam’s behest? Considering everything that had happened, it had been almost providential, an action that in the end had borne unlooked-for benefit. But Cillian — and I — had not seen it that way.
Druise and Gwenna returned to where I was holding the horses. Gwenna had been crying, from her red-rimmed eyes. “Are you all right?” I asked her.
“Why do they say such terrible things about Athàir?”
“Did anyone actually suggest that he was actively involved in bringing the Marai into Linrathe and Ésparias?”
She shook her head. “Just that it was his fault. I...put pieces together. I thought...” Tears glinted again. “I thought that my mother married him so I would be legitimate here, but she didn't want to, and that was why. And that it was why Mathàir never is affectionate to him.”
Druise snorted in derision. “You do not see affection, Gwenna, because your mother thought that when you were little, you would tell the other students how they behaved in private, and it would undermine the Comiádh in their eyes, or something equally foolish. But it is not what Sorley and I see,” he continued. “I will tell you this: why you only have one brother is not for any reason but the will of the gods.”
“Druise!” I said, half embarrassed, half laughing.
“She is fourteen,” he said. “Old enough to be married herself, in Casil.”
Gwenna had turned pink. “Don't tell me things like that,” she muttered.
“You should hear them,” Druise said. “Kitten, you know the facts. But we are not like animals, or not always. Sometimes people make love just to satisfy desire, for pleasure or for comfort. Sometimes it is more. Your mother should have told you this, but as she has not, I will. For yo
ur parents, always, it has been much more.”
“Still?” she asked. “Even —?” She stopped.
“Yes. Still.”
“How do you know?” she asked, without looking at him.
“Friends talk,” he said briefly. Lena, letting him know that all was well, I thought, a habit of reassurance.
I thought about Druise’s words as we rode. Pleasure and comfort. That was enough for Gwenna to know at fourteen. But there were times in my life when making love transcended the slaking of desire, became an act to which I, for all my scáeli’s skills, could put no name; an offering made in humility and thanksgiving to whatever gods there might be. Or perhaps to only one. I had no words for the experience, but I heard its music: the clear triple notes of remembrance: one for loss, one for love, one for forgiveness.
“I can't imagine being married at my age,” Gwenna said a little later. “But Elsë seemed to think it was normal. In Casil, too, you said, Druise?”
“Yes. And not just in the subura. High-born girls, too.”
“Why not in Ésparias, then?”
“Because the women of Ésparias would not have accepted it, and your father and Casyn agreed with them.” I said. “Before the war, women could choose to bear a child once their apprenticeships were done, at seventeen, and men had to be beyond cadet age to attend Festival. Casil wanted to impose their marriage rules, but your mother — and other women — made it very clear that could not happen.”
“And the Empress agreed?”
“Her governor did, after some long argument, and she didn’t veto his decision. So yes, I suppose she did.”
She considered this. “And Linrathe’s marriage age is sixteen, is it not?”
“Correct. Although Siusàn wished to complete her years at the Ti'ach na Asgaill before marrying. She’ll finish this summer, and the wedding is planned for a few days after the autumn equinox.”
“Are they in love?” she asked.
“Faolyn and Siusàn? Yes, so the Teannasach says.”
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