Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy

by Marian L Thorpe

  “I do,” I said. “Kelle?” She nodded, beginning to climb, not hesitating this time. She rolled onto the ledge and did not pause for breath before coming back down.

  “It’s not bad,” she said, “once you’re used to it. Thank you, Anwyl.”

  We spent another couple of hours stabilizing the last of the boulders, by which time Tiernay had the next ring in place and the rope knotted and hung. With Anwyl guiding us we both climbed to the top, and back down again without mishap. At the bottom, as we gathered our tools, I stopped to speak to him.

  “Thank you,” I said. “You gave us both confidence. If I embarrassed you earlier, I apologize.”

  “You didn’t.” he said after a minute. “I was out of line. Although…” He hesitated.

  “Although?”

  “You could take it as a compliment, I suppose,” he said. “When this was all first told to us, I thought, women, what can they do? I mean,” he flushed slightly, “I know you farm, and fish, and do all the things that need doing in a village, without men, but when it comes to fighting, that’s men’s work. But what I’ve seen, here, this week—I’m impressed. So when I told Kelle to climb, instead of asking you, it’s because I was treating you both like cadets. I did forget you were in command, but I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. I was just teaching you like I usually do.”

  “And will keep doing, I hope. Will you come back with us, when I bring the whole cohort to climb, tomorrow morning?”

  “If the Captain says I can,” he said.

  The next morning, Dern took the rest of the men off to assist elsewhere in the village, and my cohort and Anwyl spent the morning at the waterfall. By noon, we could all climb up and down with reasonable speed and confidence.

  The last of the oat fields fell to the scythes that afternoon. From the lower wheat fields, I could hear the shouts to the oxteam as the wagon filled with dried sheaves, heading to the barn for threshing. That night, the temperature fell suddenly. We woke to a thick rime of frost on the grass and clear blue skies. As I stood at my window looking out, I heard the sound I had subconsciously been waiting for: the peal of the hunting horn. The first heavy frost of autumn marked the start of the deer cull. I dressed, took my hunting bow from the corner where I had propped it, and went downstairs.

  Tali had made tea, and the smell of bacon frying made my stomach rumble. Eggs sat in a bowl, waiting to be fried in the bacon fat. The pace of a hunt frequently left no time to eat again until late in the day, so we ate well at breakfast. I sliced bread and set the table.

  Siane and Lara joined us, Siane eating only the bread and eggs. Too lame for the hunt, Siane oversaw the preparation of the smokehouse and kept the hunt records. Tali and I left the clean-up for later and walked up to the stableyard.

  Only a few women would ride. We had, as a village, very few hill ponies. Horses, expensive in terms of feed, served few purposes that could not be met by oxen. The riders, with the help of the dogs which spent most of the year herding sheep and cattle, moved the small, delicate, red-coated deer off the hilltops and down into the lower slopes. There we chose a few young males to cull each year. After last year’s mild winter and the fine summer, we might take half-a-dozen this year.

  I took my orders from Gille, who acted as hunt leader. For the first half of the day, my job would be to walk the hillsides, flushing deer from small coombs and copses. In a friendly rivalry—soldiers, did, after all, need to be competent hunters of fresh meat—we divided the range of hills between Skua’s crew and the villagers. I had Lara with me. At eleven, she was old enough to participate in the first half of the day.

  We walked up the path into the hills, skirting the springs and the burial ground, going higher even than the caves. As we walked, a thought occurred to me.

  “Lara, does your mother mind you joining in the hunt?”

  “No,” she said, surprised. “Why would she?”

  “She doesn’t eat meat, and she disapproves of killing.”

  “But she didn’t always. She was a farmer, remember?”

  “Yes. And she still keeps the herd and hunt records, I know.”

  “Long ago, before I was born, she had a liaison with a soldier who told her all about the soldier’s god, the bull they worship. She had forgotten about it, but on the day the bull attacked her, she suddenly remembered. She prayed to it. She promised that if it spared her life, she’d never kill again. She says the bull turned away at the last minute, and its horn only hit her in the leg. So she keeps that promise. She says she owes the soldier’s god her life.”

  “I see,” I said slowly.

  We had reached the high moorland. The heath shone with dew. “Shhh, now,” I whispered. “Feel the breeze. It’s coming down over the hills, so we’re upwind of the deer.” Early frosts always resulted from clear nights and a wind off the hills. Wind from the sea carried too much warmth to allow frost to form. “We need to move very quietly through the heather, down towards groups of boulders, or the little coombs, where the deer spend the night. As we approach, stay quiet, but hold your arms out like this”—I demonstrated—”to make yourself look as big as possible. We want them to move down.”

  “What if they go up?” she whispered.

  “Then the riders and the dogs will force them back down.”

  As we approached the first group of boulders, I could see the antlers of a seated stag poking up from the heather. I pointed them out to Lara. With hand signals, I indicated she should approach from one side of the boulders, I from the other. She waited while I made my way to the far side of the boulders, and then, arms outstretched, we approached the deer.

  When the stag saw us, he bolted up, snorting, to bound down the hillside, followed by three others that I hadn’t seen. I gave Lara a signal of approval, and she smiled. We continued to work along the ridge. Slowly, through the morning, we drew the noose of people and dogs tighter, driving the deer down to the lower meadow.

  As we approached, I saw Gille conferring with Siane and Gwen. I picked up my bow, and Gille motioned me over. “We will take six,” she said, “four for us, one for Skua, and one for the Empire’s provisions.” She paused. “Do you see the young stag with the malformed left antler? The first shot is yours.”

  I nodded. If I missed, or only wounded, someone else would let a second arrow fly before I could re-nock. This policy kept the kill swift, reducing the time we held the deer.

  I positioned myself and waited for the first signal. When it came, I sighted, drew, and on the second signal, released. The arrow hit the stag in the neck, as I had intended. He leapt forward, took three or four steps, and fell.

  We killed our six animals with eight arrows—four from the hands of Skua’s crew, four from women’s bows. It was a good, clean, cull. Cleaning and butchering took the rest of the day. Much of the meat went for smoking, but tonight we feasted.

  The smell of fresh liver frying over the fires brought us all to the council hall by early evening. Tice waved to me from across the hall. I worked my way through the bodies to her. She was in high spirits. “A good shot, cohort-leader,” she said. “So why the boats and not the herds, then?”

  “Simple,” I replied, picking up a plate and spearing a slice of liver from the platter of roasted meat. “The hunt is once a year, but herds-and-hunt apprentices—and masters—look after the sheep and cattle, too. And I hate sheep.”

  Tice laughed. “Fair enough.” We added vegetables and bread to our plates, moving outside where the cooking fires, now banked to heat water for tea, acted as focal points for groups of women and men. Freya saw us, waving us over to where she sat with Danel and a group of men and women. Freya and Danel sat close enough that their legs touched. Pastries, fruit, and quite a bit of wine followed the meat, making the meal leisurely and prolonged. Sitting around the fire, the night felt celebratory, a mood, I suddenly realized, of Festival.

  “That was a good shot, Lena,” Tiernay said suddenly.

  “Thanks.”

  “Do
you ever stalk deer in the hills?”

  “Yes,” I said, “sometimes, in the winter, if food is running low. I’ve taken one or two like that.”

  “It’s harder, yes?” he said. “The wind can change suddenly, and they smell you, or you misjudge the arrow flight.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. I sipped my wine, listening to Tiernay describe a winter hunt where they had taken three deer in the end, saving the camp from starvation. “And better for the deer, too,” he ended. “There was so much snow, they couldn’t find food.”

  “Where was this?” a man from across the fire said.

  “Under the Durrains,” Tiernay said, “some four or five years back.”

  “Winters are vicious over there,” the man agreed. “Like being north of the Wall.”

  “By the god, yes,” someone else said. “We did a winter sortie a few years back, with dogs, chasing after northerners who had tried to raid a guardpost for food. We had to turn back. I think they go underground.”

  “I heard they can walk on the snow,” Largen said.

  “On the snow!” Salle said.

  “Yes,” Largen answered. “They strap frames of hide and wood to their feet.”

  “It’s true,” the man across the fire said. “I’ve seen these frames. But I don’t think you can move very fast.”

  “Faster than we could,” the second man said. “I’ve never been so cold.” The woman beside him—Lise—slipped her arms around him.

  “You’re warm now,” she said. He nuzzled her hair.

  “I am,” he said.

  As the conversations became more private, I sat quietly. Tice had excused herself some time earlier. Freya and Danel slipped away, hand in hand. Casyn and Gille were at the next fire. I watched as he put his hand on her shoulder and she leaned into him. Voices murmured, laughed. String and wind instruments played.

  Dern approached, crouching beside me. “Walk with me, Lena,” he said. He stood and held out a hand. I took it, letting him pull me up. We walked away from the fire, uphill, towards the sound of the waterfall. Beyond the ring of light from the fires, he stopped. “Last time, Lena,” he murmured, putting a hand on the back of my neck, kissing me, hard and insistent. I felt the expected shock of physical desire, and beyond that, a deep regret.

  Dern stepped back, running a hand gently down my upper arm.

  I shook my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Dern,” I said. Tears pricked my eyes. “But Maya believed—believes—that she had been betrayed by everything she trusted. To go with you, when there is nothing more between us than physical desire, would be to betray that trust one more time.”

  A half-smile crossed his face. “I guessed as much. But I had to ask one last time.” He looked back, toward the music, and the fires.

  “Go,” I said. “Enjoy the night.” He looked at me steadily for a moment, then nodded. Beyond us, in the hills, an owl called. I could see a light in Tice’s cottage window. I waited. Dern turned to walk back to the others. He would find comfort somewhere. I watched him for a moment, then took the uphill path to Tice’s cottage.

  She sat on the doorstep, a flask of wine and a cup beside her, looking out at the night. She must have seen—or heard—me coming but said nothing until I was only a few feet away.

  “Said no to Dern, did you?” she said softly.

  “I had to. For Maya. I only wanted physical comfort from him, Tice. There is no love between us.”

  She nodded, a half-smile playing around her lips. “You’re still very young, cohort-leader. I hope you can keep to your ideals in what is coming.”

  I wanted to protest, but what could I say? Tice gestured. “Get a cup from the kitchen and join me.” She edged over on the doorstone. I walked past her into the lantern-lit cottage, found a cup, and sat beside her. Tice reached for the wine to fill my cup. We drank in silence.

  Tice spoke first. “Have you ever wondered why I left Karst?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Was it not by choice?”

  “No,” she said, so quietly I had to strain to hear her. “I was banished, sent away by the council. Do you want to know why?” I heard a challenge in her voice.

  “Do you want to tell me?” I answered softly.

  “Yes,” she said, in a normal tone. “You’re my friend, I hope, Lena, and my leader in these strange times. You deserve to know.” She paused. “I had a child. A son. Out of season, conceived between festivals by a Lestian trader.”

  “Why?” I blurted.

  “Why?” She laughed. “Because I was young and rebellious, and because the woman I loved had conceived a child the year before, and I was jealous, and angry.”

  “But, Tice, liaisons produce children.”

  “I wasn’t jealous of the liaison. I am not proud of this, Lena. I was jealous of the child. Once she knew she was pregnant, all her attention was given to the unborn baby. And I was angry because she had gone against my wishes. I didn’t want a child in our household, but Tevra did.”

  “She didn’t come with you into exile?”

  She shook her head. “She left before that, even before the babe was born. I had made our life together unbearable, so she went to Casilla to live with an aunt.”

  “Does she know what has happened to you since then?”

  “No,” she said. “Not even my mother or sisters know where I am.”

  “And your son? Where is he?”

  “Being raised in the slave quarters at Jedd’s retirement farm. The council arranged that. What else would there have been for him? No father to claim him, no regiment to house him. He will never know. They let me bear him and name him—Valle, I called him—and then they took him. They sent me away a month later.” She fell silent. The cat appeared from somewhere to rub against Tice’s legs. She stroked it absentmindedly. After a while, she spoke again. “I had gone to the farm to see the accountsman—something about payment for some grapes. But he was chambered with Jedd and the captain of the Lestian ship, and my errand was not important enough to disturb him. I decided to wait. I wandered around a bit, looked at the horses. And met Kirthan. He was a junior member of the Lestian entourage, bored by all the waiting. He had a flask of wine, and I was just an afternoon’s distraction.” She shrugged. “He was too young, probably, to even know the taboos we were breaking.”

  “Does the council know?”

  “Yes,” she answered. “I was exiled, and so must tell. Maya chose exile: she need not tell her reasons. You know that,” she added. I remembered it, vaguely, from schoolgirl lessons. It had seemed very unimportant, then.

  “Tice,” I said, “what if—”

  “Kirthan is aboard this raiding ship? We shared next to nothing, Lena, and I have paid all the price. I and Valle. Kirthan is nothing to me. If my knife finds his heart, I will feel no regret. You need not worry, cohort-leader.” Something in her voice told me the moment had passed and the subject was closed. I poured some more wine.

  “Tomorrow, will we practice one-on-one combat with the men, or should we test our routes again?”

  “Practice, I think.”

  We spoke of tactics for a while before I bade her goodnight and walked back to my room. The house was dark. I could hear music and laughter. It did not touch me. Too much betrayal, done or revealed, this night. I let the tears come. I wept for the pain Tice had caused and carried, for my own fears for Maya and for myself, and for the comfort I could not give, or take.

  Chapter Nine

  Six days later, on a foggy, wet morning, Skua sailed on the tide. For the last few days, Dern had not accompanied his men to the practice field but had spent his days with Casyn. I had seen him only from a distance. While he always waved and shouted a greeting, he did not come to me privately. Nor did I go in search of him.

  The day before, I had met Casyn at the lower footbridge. I was carrying a basket of carrots and small turnips on my way to Tali’s from the fields.

  “Lena,” he said, in his measured way, “I hoped to find you.”

  “Casy
n,” I greeted him, putting my basket down. “Do you need something?”

  “No,” he said. “Only to tell you we sail tomorrow, on the morning tide.”

  “Tomorrow! Then you think the invasion is very soon.”

  “A week, give or take. We need to be well away, out beyond the quickest routes from Leste, so that we are not seen. We will approach the island from the west, as they sail east.”

  I glanced at the sky. The breeze blew from off the hills, and only a few clouds lined the western horizon: good weather to sail west.

  “Are we ready?”

  “You are,” he said. “Trust your training, Lena, but also your instincts.”

  “I wish you were staying.”

  “You have to do this yourselves,” he said. “Were I here, you would defer to my experience and not take true leadership. This way, you must.” He held out a hand. “Fare you well, Lena. I will see you again.”

  I too held out my right hand. He took my arm in the soldier’s grasp, his hand at my elbow. I returned the grasp, feeling the muscles of his arm, hard against my hand. “Farewell, Casyn. We will have tales to tell, when we meet again.”

  The entire village came out to see them leave. The men rowed aboard in small boats until only Dern and Casyn stood on the jetty. They saluted us, and we them, and then they boarded the last boat to begin their short, measured trip back to the ship.

  We watched, singly and in small groups, until the sea fog obscured the last glimpse of Skua. I wished suddenly I had spoken to Dern before they sailed, if only to thank him for what he had taught me. But I had missed my chance.

  As women began to walk away, up the hill to the meeting house, cohorts fell in behind their leaders. I saw Freya watching me. I nodded, joining the exodus from the shore. We walked up the hill without much talk. My cohort sat together at the meeting house, Tice taking her usual place beside me. Gille, with Sara and my mother, stood in their familiar place in the centre of the circle. When all had gathered, Gille raised her hand for silence.

  “Women of Tirvan,” she began, “we are once again a village of women. Four months ago, our lives consisted of farming and fishing, and our thoughts and our skills were given to these pursuits. We are something more now: a military unit, trained to fight. And we have paid a price, both personal and collective.”