“I trust that the ceannàrd understands war,” she said, “even if he doesn’t understand me in the slightest.”
There was laughter around the room that told Voada that gossip about last night had spread widely through the fort. Iosa laughed with them, then half turned back to Greum, spreading his hands wide. “You see, Ceanndraoi?”
Greum didn’t look pleased. He glared at Voada again, and she gazed back at him placidly. “As you both wish, then. Ceannàrd, I expect you to rejoin us quickly.”
Iosa bowed. “As quickly as we might,” he told Greum. “Draoi Voada, come with me so I can introduce you again to my driver and my horses.”
He held out his hand toward her. She ignored it, standing up on her own. “That would be good,” she told him, “since it might be difficult to distinguish the ceannàrd from the rears of the others.”
There was louder and longer laughter at that. Iosa smiled thinly and bowed his head to her. They left the room to whispered comments.
“If you were a man, Draoi Voada, I would have challenged you then and there for insulting me in front of the others,” Iosa said as they rode out of the fort, the bed of the chariot bouncing over the stones. Four more chariots carrying other warriors followed them. The leather suspension creaked underneath them, and the warhorses snorted as their hooves pounded the grass and earth. Iosa’s driver, Tadgh—young, agile, and muscular, wearing only leather pants—crouched in the webbing of the harness between horses and chariot, the thick leather reins in his hands as he shouted at the two steeds, seeming to ignore the conversation behind him.
“If I were a man,” Voada retorted, tightly clutching the rails next to Iosa to stay on her feet, “I doubt there’d have been a need for the comment. If you want to challenge me, tell your driver to stop the chariot, and you can have your challenge: your spear against my spell.”
She saw Iosa’s jaw clench and his knuckles go white where his own hand held the rail. They were following the line of the island’s outer wall, descending into a small valley. Dark gray clouds hung low in the sky here—the creation of the draoi, she knew—and rain began to pelt them as they rode, the drops striking hard on the skin. Voada shielded her eyes with a hand. The hill-fort that the Mundoa had taken loomed at the summit of the next hill.
“I would never be draoi even if I could be,” Iosa said. His dark hair and beard were dripping and plastered to his face now, and the paint he’d applied was streaked and fading. “There’s true honor in fighting with a spear or sword, one against another, staring into each other’s faces, knowing one of you must kill the other. An archer’s bow, a siege engine’s stones, a spell, all the killing done from a safe distance … there’s no honor in those ways.”
“Yet an army uses them all. The Mundoa have their engines, the Cateni have the draoi.”
“We have them only because we must,” the ceannàrd answered. After a breath, he spoke again. “Ceanndraoi Greum believes that you had the opportunity to kill Commander Savas but chose not to. Is that true?”
They’d reached the bottom of the slope. Tadgh slapped the reins hard down on the warhorses’ backs as they began to climb toward the hill-fort, and the chariot lurched hard over the rocks of a small stream at the bottom. Both Voada and Iosa had to cling to the rail of the car to avoid being tossed from the chariot and into the water and mud. Through the rain, Voada could see movement along the tumbled wall of the hill-fort—they’d been seen. “I knew Commander Savas before I came here,” she told him. “I liked the man. He treated me and my husband well—far better than the Voice of Pencraig did. He would never have done to my family what they did.”
“I admire the man as well,” Iosa said, “as I would any competent enemy. I honor his bravery, his skills as a warrior, and his intelligence.”
“‘The officer who doesn’t appreciate the skill of his enemy is nothing more than a fool.’ Commander Savas told me that once.”
“As I said, he’s an intelligent man. But he’s also my enemy, and I would kill him without hesitation. Will you?”
“I thought you didn’t believe there was any honor in killing your enemy from a distance.”
Iosa grinned over his shoulder at her and laughed. “And that’s why I admire you, Draoi Voada. You always have an answer.”
There was no more time for talk. The small group of war chariots moved out onto the open ground before the fort’s northern gates, staying out of the archers’ range. Voada lifted an arm, calling her anamacha to her; she fought to remain focused between the swaying movement of the chariot and the chaos of the anamacha’s interior world. Her vision swung wildly between the two and finally settled. “Iomhar!” she called.
While the other chariots stopped, Iosa had Tadgh race back and forth in front of the fort’s wall, the wheels of his chariot and the warhorses’ hooves churning the turf into black mud. He roared his challenge toward the rain-soaked walls. “Commander Savas, come and meet me or send your champion! You know me. I am Ceannàrd Maol Iosa, and I would enjoy seeing how well the Mundoa can fight, warrior against warrior! Come out! Show me!”
Heads appeared along the wall: archers with arrows nocked and ready. Finally, a figure dressed in a brilliant blue cloak emerged. Even from this distance, even through the haze of rain and the overlay of the anamacha’s world, Voada knew it was Savas. “Ceannàrd Iosa!” he shouted, his voice thin and faint. “I gave you my answer once before, and it will be the same every time you ask. Let our armies meet on the field, and perhaps you’ll have your wish.”
The man in the blue cloak turned, and the archers loosed a barrage of arrows. At the same time, Voada gathered the energy Iomhar held and threw it outward with a gesture. The arrows immediately turned to flame and smoke, and arrowheads plummeted far short of them like an iron rain. The Cateni cheered, and there were shouts of consternation from the walls. Iosa laughed. “Back to the fort, Tadgh,” he called. “The ceanndraoi will have left by now. That should keep the Mundoa back for today and make Savas think again if he wants to pursue us.”
Tadgh turned the warhorses, and they rode back the way they’d come. Voada craned her neck back toward the fort as they left. Savas still stood there, impassive, in his blue cloak.
But Voada remembered Savas and the way he’d treated her and Meir, the way Meir had spoken admiringly of the man and his honor, and the manner in which Savas had spoken of the Cateni. Voada reluctantly released the anamacha without answering. Could there be another way? she wondered. If I could speak to Savas somehow, perhaps we could stop the fighting …
“Draoi Voada,” she heard Iosa say to her, bringing her attention back to him, “we’ve not much time before we’re back with the others. Have you thought more of what we talked about?”
“Yes,” she told him. “But I still don’t know that I can trust you.” Or if there’s another way I must try first …
“That’s wise of you,” he answered. He smiled as the chariot lurched and started back down the slope, the others following behind them. She felt his arm touch her waist as if to steady her, and she looked at him warningly.
He continued to smile, but he removed his hand.
That night, they camped well inland, nearer to the second ring of forts, hidden from the Mundoa by the high ridges between them. Voada shared a small tent with Ceiteag, who was already snoring in her blankets, but Voada found sleep elusive. The terror of the battle and the tense excitement of her ride with Ceannàrd Iosa still pounded inside her, while the voices of her anamacha whispered to her, insistent:
she railed at the voices.
She had listened to the anamacha once before, and to Iomhar, and that had brought her to a greater understanding of what being a draoi meant. How could she ignore the voices now, especially when the guilt of having left her children behind still haunted her?
She wanted to hold them again more than anything else.
A sense of satisfaction washed through her from the anamacha.
Voada closed her eyes, opening her arms in invitation as the cold touch of the anamacha pressed against and into her. The world of Magh da Chèo opened around her, storm-filled as always, and she saw Iomhar there, standing near her.
Voada nodded.
She felt Iomhar begin to draw power from Magh da Chèo, and Voada moved her hands in the pattern she’d been taught, chanting the words to bind the net and pull the energy from Iomhar to herself. This spell felt draining and slippery to hold, but it was quieter than the spells of war. Softer. When the net she’d woven was full, Iomhar gave her the release words: bruidhinn nam fhochair. “Speak in my presence.”
As she intoned the words, she imagined herself standing before Savas.
And she was. She was no longer in Magh da Chèo but somewhere within the half ruined fort Savas had taken, standing inside a small chamber with a single window. A candle burned on a table, giving the room a wavering, dim glow. Savas was sleeping there. She reached out to touch him, to awaken him, but the hand and arm she extended were nearly transparent, shimmering insubstantially in the candlelight, and her hand simply passed through him. “Commander,” she said then, and the word sounded as if she were speaking from some great distance, echoing. “Commander, I would speak with you.”
His eyes flew open, and he reached instinctively for his sword, drawing it suddenly. He slashed at her even as he rose, though he moved more slowly and awkwardly than she had expected; his left leg was still bandaged and stiff. The weapon slid through her body as though she were made of smoke. Savas stared at the useless sword, then at her. She saw recognition touch his scarred features, narrowing his eyes.
“You can’t touch me, Commander,” she told him. “And it seems I can’t touch you. I supposed we should both be grateful for that.”
“Why do you look familiar?” he asked. “Who are you? What are you?”
“You knew me as the Hand-wife Voada of Pencraig,” she told him. “You did a kindness to my husband and me.”
Savas blinked at that. His free hand rubbed at his eyes as if he were trying to wake himself. “Hand-wife Voada? Yes, I remember … But you’re dead. Why are you here haunting me?”
“I’m not dead, though my husband, Meir, is. I am Draoi Voada now. I am on Onglse, but elsewhere.”
Savas shook his head in denial and confusion. “You’re draoi? Here? I don’t understand …”
“It was my spell that destroyed your ballistae, Commander. Certainly you remember that? I could have killed you just as easily, but I didn’t, because I remembered the kindness you showed my husband and me in Pencraig, because you defended the Cateni when Voice Kadir insulted us. For that I spared you. Now I want to talk with you, Commander. Nothing more.”
Savas gave a bark of a laugh. He sat on his bedding again, his injured leg unbending, though he still held his sword. “What use is talking to a dream?”
“I’m not a dream, Commander. We are able to speak through a draoi spell, but I don’t know how long it will last. I’d rather we didn’t waste that time.” Savas said nothing, only stared at her. Voada sighed and continued. “I came to tell you that you won’t win here, Commander. Your sihirki are laughable against Cateni draoi, as you’ve seen, and our warriors easily match your soldiers. What you don’t realize is that there are more draoi and warriors coming to Onglse every day.” Voada knew that last statement for a lie, but she hoped that Savas wouldn’t perceive it. “All that you can accomplish by remaining here is more death, and your own will inevitably be among them. It doesn’t have to be that way. I want a truce. I’d rather have peace between our people. We could accomplish that, Commander, the two of us. We could make a start.”
Savas was shaking his head before she finished. “Hand-wife … or ghost or dream or whatever you are … you think me more than I am. I’m just a soldier. No more. I have my orders and my duty. You want peace? Then tell Ceanndraoi Greum to surrender Onglse. Tell Ceannàrd Iosa to have his warriors lay down their arms. Have the two of them put in chains, and I’ll deliver them to the Great-Voice in Trusa to be tried, but I’ll let the rest of you go to your homes in peace.”
“That won’t happen,” Voada told him. “That’s not peace. That’s defeat.”
Savas nodded. “I know. But that’s what Emperor Pashtuk demands, and thus what Great-Voice Vadim demands of me in turn. I’m sorry, Hand-wife. I heard what Voice Kadir did to your family after I left—though I was told you died as well—and I’m sorry. But none of us can change the past, even though we might want that. I certainly do.” Voada could see a sadness pass over Savas’ face, a grief that seemed nearly as deep as her own. “The past is done and finished, and the future can’t be known. We can only do what duty and honor binds us to do and hope we’re taking the right path.”
“This isn’t the right path. We both know that.”
“So my dream continues to argue?” Savas put the sword down on the bed. He exhaled loudly. “If our path’s the wrong one, it’s nothing either of us can change. If I refuse to act according to my duty, someone else will take my place to do so. And you … if you go to the Red-Hand and tell him that you’ll no longer do his bidding, what will he do to you?” When Voada didn’t answer, Savas gave her a sad, weary smile. “Ah,” he said. “You see, dream? So we can only hope and keep walking our paths. I’m sorry, Hand-wife. For both of us.”
“So am I,” Voada told him. “More than you realize.”
With that, she willed the spell to dissolve, and she found herself collapsing onto her blankets back in her tent in the darkness.
19
Separations
THE CATENI REACHED THE nearest of the hill-forts in Onglse’s inner defensive ring wall by midday. Iosa and Greum spent the rest of the day in conference with some of the other warriors and draoi, but after her previous outburst, Voada was pointedly not invited to join them.
Instead, she sought out a small garden facing Bàn Cill near the fort’s gates. The inner defensive ring wall had less the look of a fortification, possibly because unlike the outer ring, it had never actually seen war. The Mundoa had attacked Onglse more than once since they’d come to Albann, but they had never before breached even the outer wall. On the inside of the ring, the land was heavily wooded and sloped down gently until the tree-covered slopes that enclosed Bàn Cill itself rose a short day’s ride away. Someone had created the garden alongside a pond, fed by a stream cascading through the gorse. At the end of the pond, the stream fell away again into a chattering waterfall and disappeared once more under the brush alongside the rutted roadway leading toward Bàn Cill.
She was sitting on a moss-covered boulder near the waterfall, the crystalline sound filling her ears and the smell of clean water and the flowering gorse in her
nostrils. She held a clump of the flowers in her hand when she saw the ceannàrd enter the garden and stop a careful stride away from her.
“Just how did you plan to leave Onglse, Draoi Voada?” he asked her. “Were you going to swim across the channel?”
Iosa’s tone was gently mocking. Voada scowled at the man. “I hadn’t made any plans to leave at all until you came to me,” she told him. “And I still don’t know that I will.” Or rather, for me to do so alone would be foolish. To Voada, that seemed likely, despite the yammering of her anamacha, intensified now since her failed conversation with Savas. “Have you betrayed me to Ceanndraoi Greum?” she asked. “Is that why you’re here?”
“Is that what you think I’d do?”
“That makes more sense to me than you abandoning Onglse to go on a fool’s errand with me.”
Iosa crouched down near her. He plucked at the moss on the bank of the pond. “Why?”
“I’ve little to offer you. You are the ceannàrd. I’ve seen you in battle. I’ve seen the pleasure you take in fighting—and there will be fighting enough for you here if you stay. Glory and honor and perhaps even a hero’s death to take you into Tirnanog, where the gods will be pleased to have you sit with them. Go with me …” She shrugged. “Perhaps we’ll be discovered leaving, and Greum Red-Hand will have us put to death as traitors. Or let’s say we actually manage to steal away from Onglse, but none of the clans can be persuaded to join us. Perhaps—”
Iosa’s laugh cut her off. “Perhaps we’ll gather an army of the clans and sweep into Albann Deas before Commander Savas and the Great-Voice realize what’s happened. Perhaps the southern Cateni will rise up with us. Perhaps we’ll give the Mundoa a mortal wound and send them running and weeping back to Rumeli and their emperor.” He tossed the moss into the pond; they both watched it swirl away in the current. “I like my ‘perhaps’ better than yours,” he said. “Glory and honor and a true hero’s death—those are all more likely if I leave. So you see, I believe in you perhaps more than you do yourself.” He paused, his gaze finding hers. “I’m intrigued by everything you have to offer, Draoi Voada.”
A Fading Sun Page 19