A Fading Sun

by Stephen Leigh

“You’re a worse tyrant than the emperor.”

  “I’m your wife, and I intend to stay that,” she answered. Then: “We need to talk about Orla.”

  Meir made a face as if still tasting the potion, then walked across the room to sit in a chair near the curtained window. Voada watched him, listened to his breathing as he sat; it was better, but she could still hear the slight wheeze as he settled into the cushions. “Orla? I know she’s had her first bleeding, but I thought that we were going to talk about possible marriages after the next solstice. I’ve heard that Sub-Commander Bakir is looking for a wife.”

  Voada drew in an involuntary gasp at that. “That cold fish of a man? He’d sell his mother if the Voice told him to do it. Meir, how can you suggest that? Why, I’d sooner—”

  Meir was grinning; Voada stopped, glaring at him. “You’re not at all funny,” she told him.

  “You should have seen your face,” he told her. “Mind you, I agree entirely about Bakir. However, in all seriousness, I’ve heard that the Hand over in Savur has a son he’d like to see married, and he has connections into Rumeli, which would be good.”

  Voada interrupted him, brushing aside the curtains and sitting on the wide sill of the window. “It’s not marriage for Orla that concerns me, though we do need to worry about that soon as well. Meir, Orla saw the taibhse in the temple too.”

  Meir’s head drew back on the cushions. His mouth opened slightly; she could hear the airy whistling of his exhalation. “Like you.”

  A nod. “Like me. She could have been menach or even draoi, as I could have been.”

  “There are no draoi left here.”

  The ghost, always pointing north … “There are,” she told him, “across the River Meadham.”

  Meir laughed. “In the wilderness, with the wild tribes? They won’t be there for long. General Savas and the emperor’s army will crush them soon enough, as they did the armies of the tribes in the south when they first came. It’ll just take time to pull the tribes out of their mountains and from that damned draoi fastness Onglse.”

  “You sound like a Mundoan, husband.”

  “I sound like a realist, wife,” he answered. “And it will happen soon.”

  “Oh?” Voada asked. “Have you heard something?”

  Meir nodded. “From both Voice Kadir and Sub-Commander Bakir. The Great-Voice has apparently given orders to Commander Savas to take the army north. But you can’t say anything; we don’t want wild rumors flying around.” He sighed and reached over to pat her hand on the sill. “I’m sorry. Surely you’re not seriously suggesting we send Orla to Albann Bràghad to live with the tribes just so she can practice the old religion? Elia hasn’t sat on the altar in the southern temples for almost three generations, Voada.”

  Voada thought of the statue of Elia buried near the temple. “I know. It’s just—”

  “Teach Orla what you know, if you must,” Meir said over her objection. “Tell her about Elia and the other gods. Tell her about the solstice celebrations. Show her how to send the dead along the sun-paths. Voada, I don’t want her—or Hakan, either—to forget our Cateni background. But they both have to live in this world and in this reality. They need to be happy in this world. We are, after all. Aren’t we? Happy?”

  His voice held a naked vulnerability that tore at Voada. “Yes, my love. We are.” It’s mostly the truth, after all, she told herself.

  She could see relief flood his face, relaxing the lines around his eyes and forehead as he slumped back in his chair. “Good,” he said with an exhalation. “And later this year, we’ll find someone who will make Orla happy too.”

  “If she doesn’t find someone on her own,” Voada said. “I’ve seen Doruk making sure he always finds Orla when we go to market, and she seems to enjoy talking to him.”

  “The procurator’s son? I suppose that wouldn’t be a terrible match, but …”

  “We found each other without the intervention of our parents. Do you regret that?”

  The lines returned to his face. “No, of course not. But I thought …”

  “I know. That’s not the Mundoan way. I don’t care which way things are done as long as Orla finds the same happiness we found.” She leaned down and kissed the top of his head. “That’s all I want for her.” She got up from the sill and bent down to hug Meir. “That’s all I’ll ever want, for us and for our children. Now, it’s time for you to get up. Voice Kadir was asking after you, and you should go see him after being in your bed all day yesterday.”

  Meir looked up at her and grinned. “I thought you wanted me to be happy.”

  “And you will be, especially after you leave the Voice.” She made her way across the room. “I’ll have the kitchen send us food out in the courtyard to break our fast; it’s a lovely day, and warm. I’ll be waiting for you there.”

  5

  An Army’s March

  “MOTHER! FATHER! COME LOOK!” Hakan shouted as he ran into the courtyard, pointing out toward the temple road. Fermac followed him, barking at the excitement in the boy’s voice.

  It had been two days since Voada had taken Orla up to the temple to see the ghost; she hadn’t been there since. She’d watched Meir instead—after a day of marked improvement in his breathing, he was slowly returning to his previous state, where any physical exertion left him breathless and exhausted. Voada had decided to seek out the archiater again to see if the potion she’d given him could be strengthened, but today was laundry day, and the courtyard was half awash in tubs of warm, soapy water as Voada and Orla helped the house servants with the task.

  Voada turned from wringing out the linen sheets in her tub. Hands dripping, she brushed sweat and hair away from her eyes with a forearm and handed a twisted sheet to Una to hang. “Hakan, please be quiet; your father’s napping. Here—you can help Orla with hanging your clothes.”

  “Mother …” Hakan heaved a dramatic and loud sigh. “The soldiers … You must come see.” He half turned, gesturing toward the open archway of the courtyard. “You must, Mother,” he repeated.

  Now it was Voada’s turn to sigh. “I’ll be right back,” she told Orla and the servants. Hakan had run forward to take her hand, tugging her toward the temple road. She followed him and Fermac out of the courtyard to the paved stones curving gently back and forth up the slope of Pencraig Bluff. Letting go of Voada’s hand, Hakan pointed urgently down toward the river.

  She saw it then.

  From their vantage point halfway up Pencraig Bluff, the fields across the river were full of movement, like a plague of ants overrunning spilled grain. Sudden mushrooms of white tents dotted the greenery, with banners of varying colors fluttering in the breeze and planted at the intersections of the “streets” formed by the tents. The sun glinted off the segmented iron-and-bronze armor of the thousands of soldiers scurrying about the encampment. The River Yarrow was clogged with boats on both banks, and there was more bustling and hurrying around the docks of Pencraig. Even from this distance, Voada could hear faint calls and the clatter of barrels, chests, and livestock being loaded.

  But that was less compelling a sight than the small squadron ascending toward them, replete with standard-bearers and two war chariots, each carrying two officers wearing fitted bronze-and-steel plate armor over their chests and plumed ceremonial helmets. They were quickly approaching Voada and Hakan, the drivers guiding the chariots stolidly between the crowds of curious onlookers who were quickly lining the road. Fermac was barking madly.

  “Hold the dog or take him inside,” Voada told Hakan, who took hold of Fermac’s rope collar. As the soldiers came abreast of Voada and Hakan—now joined by Orla and most of the household staff, who had abandoned the laundry at the growing clamor—the lead officer raised his hand. The driver of his chariot pulled up his horses, and the squadron came to a halt as Voada and the others bowed, as was proper. He looked from Voada to the insignia of the Hand on the gate; his eyes were somber and as dark as his hair. She could see the white line of an old s
car puckering his left cheek. She wasn’t certain how old the man was; his face was weathered and lined, but the nut-brown eyes and the set of his mouth seemed much younger.

  “This is the Hand’s dwelling?” the man asked in Mundoan, and Voada lifted her head. The man’s voice was a pleasant, low baritone, the accent distinctly that of the southern mainland, not of Albann.

  “It is,” she told him. “I am Voada, Hand-wife.”

  The man smiled briefly; the expression didn’t appear entirely comfortable on his face and evaporated quickly. “Greetings to you, Hand-wife,” he said. “And the estate of Voice Kadir?”

  “The last on the left before you reach the Temple of the Emperor,” she told him.

  A nod of acknowledgment. “Good. Then perhaps I will see you this evening. Tell your husband to come to the Voice’s estate as soon as possible; I will meet with him and Voice Kadir there.”

  “I will …” Voada let her voice trail off deliberately, and the man took her cue with a soft laugh.

  “Pardon my rudeness, Hand-wife. I am Commander Altan Savas.” Turning in the car of the chariot, he waved back down the hills toward the sprawling encampment across the river. For the first time, she saw the triple-star insignia on his shoulder, glinting gold and silver. “It’s my honor to lead Emperor Pashtuk’s army in Albann.”

  Voada’s breath caught in her throat; she heard Una and some of the other servants gasp. Orla came over to stand next to her, and Hakan pressed close against her side. Commander Savas … She knew the name well enough; any Cateni would. It was Savas who had rescued the Mundoan capital city of Trusa two hands and one years ago, when the northern tribes had managed to consolidate their forces under a single leader, Tamar One-Eye. Tamar’s army had crossed the River Meadham and laid siege to the capital. Savas, then a young leader of one of the legions, had disobeyed his then-commander and led his troops from their fort on the western reaches of the Meadham to come to the succor of Trusa, slamming into the Cateni forces from behind and capturing Tamar in the resulting battle. Tamar and his family had been taken away in chains to be presented to the Emperor Pashtuk. The Cateni army had dissolved without Tamar’s leadership, the tribes’ warriors slinking back across the Meadham and into their old fastnesses in the hills.

  Commander Savas … The Cateni hated him, hated his name, hated what he represented. And here he was in front of her, polite and standing easily in his chariot as if talking to an acquaintance. Here he was, with what seemed to be every legion in the land, on the march northward toward the Cateni tribal lands. Voada had little doubt about what that army intended to do there.

  He must know she was Cateni, as the Hands of the towns and villages were invariably selected from the Cateni population. That was the Mundoan style: let the subject people be taxed by their own. She was certain that he would just as easily draw his sword and kill her if he thought her a threat.

  “Hand-wife?” Savas said now, his head cocked toward her quizzically. Voada shook herself from her reverie, forcing a smile and bowing to him again.

  “I’m sorry, Commander Savas,” she said. She put her arms around her children. “This is my son, Hakan, and my daughter, Orla.”

  The commander inclined his head toward her children. “Hakan, Orla. My pleasure to meet the both of you. You should be proud of them, Hand-wife.”

  “I am, Commander, and I will let the Hand know that he’s expected.”

  The commander nodded at that. “Until later, then, Hand-wife,” he said, and gestured to his driver. “Take us on, Lucian.” The driver slapped the reins down on the backs of the horses in the traces. The group continued up the road, the horses shod with strap-on, iron-bottomed “hipposandals” that sounded loud on the flagstones, as did the iron-shod wheels of the chariots.

  “He’s handsome,” Orla said. “But he looks dangerous.”

  “He is both,” Voada agreed.

  “I want to be a soldier like him,” Hakan said, still holding Fermac’s collar. “I already know how to use a sword.”

  “There’s time enough for that when you’re older,” Voada told him. She watched the dust rising from the horses and the booted men as they continued to ascend the road. “Right now, I need to go wake your father and help him to get ready. Una, please take the children. The rest of you, the laundry still needs to be done. You’ve seen all you need to see here.”

  She gestured, and the servants hurried back into the courtyard, Una, Hakan, and Orla following behind. Voada cast a last glance at Commander Savas’ escort and, wiping her hands on her skirt, went to give Meir the news.

  The Voice had been drinking heavily both before and during the banquet for Commander Savas. To Voada, it showed in Maki Kadir’s slurred speech, his slouched posture, and the heaviness of the man’s eyelids.

  “The real problem we have is the damned sihirki, the ones the Cateni call ‘draoi,’” Voice Kadir declared. He was using his public voice, high-pitched and shrill. His golden band of office sat askew across his forehead. “It’s their damned magic and spells and the filthy gods they worship. Crush them, and you crush all the Cateni, because their so-called warriors haven’t the discipline or skill of our own brave soldiers.”

  They were sitting at a long table in the great dining hall of the Voice’s estate, decorated with new-cut flowers woven into garlands of young grapevines. Goldfish swam in crystal bowls on the table, and musicians were playing Mundoan songs at one end of the hall.

  To Voice Kadir’s left was Voice-wife Dilara, then Sub-Commander Bakir of Pencraig Garrison, then Meir and Voada. Commander Savas and a hand of his officers were placed to the Voice’s right. Two double hands of other prominent citizens of Pencraig made up the rest of the guests. Servants stood against the walls or hovered like bees about the hall, waiting to fill wine goblets or offer new dishes from the kitchen.

  Voice Kadir, at the conclusion of his statement, reached for his wine goblet, sloshing some of the red liquid over the silver rim as he did so, and lifted it in Commander Savas’ direction. “That’s what I would wish if I were the emperor. We look to you to perform that task, Commander for the Great-Voice,” Maki intoned. “Lead your troops on to that despicable island Onglse in Albann Bràghad, where their cowardly draoi hide, and smash the Cateni resistance finally and for all time.”

  It was obvious to Voada that Maki expected an immediate and enthusiastic reply to his speech—Meir had told her that Voice Kadir was certain that the army’s destination was the island of Onglse, though the commander had carefully not verified that in their meeting. Instead, the man had concerned himself entirely with what supplies Pencraig could provide for the army and whether there were boats they could commandeer that would be large enough to accommodate troops so they wouldn’t have to continue overland to Muras before taking ship. “He’s one-minded and close-mouthed, this commander,” Meir had told Voada. “I suspect the Voice is right about the commander’s orders, but Maki would be wise not to offend the man. I certainly don’t want to be the one to do so.”

  Now Commander Savas glanced past the Voice and Voice-wife to where Meir—wearing his own band of office on his head, made of silver rather than gold—and Voada sat. His gaze was surprisingly sympathetic and lingering before he turned again to Voice Kadir. “Not all Cateni are our enemies, and in my own experience I’ve found them as a rule to be neither stupid nor cowardly, Voice Kadir. We shouldn’t speak so strongly against them. I would prefer to have the Cateni as allies where possible. After all, there are two such sitting here at your table.”

  The Voice’s goblet was still lifted in salute. Neither the commander nor any of his officers had touched theirs to return the sentiments, though the locals down the table had in anticipation. Savas stared blandly at the Voice, who slowly brought his goblet back down. Voada could see his hand shaking. Voice-wife Dilara’s lips pursed as if she’d swallowed rotten fruit.

  “Yes, well, ahem …” Voice Kadir began, clearing his throat. “Certainly the Hand and Hand-wife understand
my meaning and agree with me.” He glanced at Meir. “Don’t you, Hand Paorach?”

  Voada pressed Meir’s hand under the table in alarm, but Commander Savas broke in before Meir could form any sort of answer. “I’m sure that the Hand of Pencraig has taken no offense, Voice Kadir, and I’m certain that he, at least, is entirely trustworthy. I have no issue with the Hand or Hand-wife at all. I only hope you can be as certain that none of your Cateni servants and slaves might whisper what you believe are our Emperor Pashtuk’s intentions to the wrong ears.”

  Voada saw the servants stiffen at their posts along the walls. Both Voice Kadir and Sub-Commander Bakir glanced at them in sudden alarm. The song the musicians—also Cateni—were playing crashed to an uneven halt. “Why, Commander, that’s not possible,” Voice Kadir stated into the silence. “I would personally put anyone who betrayed us to the sword, as would Sub-Commander Bakir.” He glared at the servants, as if daring any of them to move or speak.

  “And if the whisper of the emperor’s plans had originally come from your own lips, because you spoke of them here, in public, with slaves, servants, and guests to hear you?” Savas’ arms spread wide, to include the dinner guests as well as the servants. On his right side, his officers were grim-faced, and their hands were below the table, the food in front of them untouched on their silver plates. “Would you then fall on your own sword, Voice Kadir, or would you prefer to blame the wine?” Savas’ voice had gone cold, and the lines of his face were stern. Voada tightened her fingers around Meir’s hand; she could see the military officer now, not the smooth and polite mask of a diplomat that he’d been wearing until now.

  This was a man who could kill without remorse and without a second thought.

  She wondered which was the real man.

  Did the taibhse somehow know of these plans? Is this what the ghost has been trying to tell me?

  Dilara clutched at her husband’s arm, her fingers bunching the cloth of his sleeve. Voice Kadir was trembling visibly, his eyes wide and his mouth working, though only strangled sounds emerged. Finally he seemed to find his voice. “Commander Savas, I … I certainly meant no harm. Yes, the wine …” He stopped, looking around as if for support. He spread his hands wide. “Commander, you must know …” Again his words trailed off. “If I’ve offended you in the slightest …”