Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy

by Marian L Thorpe

  I saw Cillian take a deep breath. Then he nodded. “As you wish, Teannasach,” he said, his voice flat.

  Donnalch moved his head to look at me. “We will ride a bit ahead,” he said. “The Lady Dagney will bind your arm again and help you to change into dry trews—you have such?” I nodded; the word was unfamiliar, but the meaning clear. “Be as quick as you can,” he said to Dagney.

  My mind spun. How could Donnalch, who knew both the Emperor and Cillian, not see the likeness? What did it mean? I thought of Turlo, seeing my father in me when I laughed. How could he not have seen this? He was too keen an observer, and he ignored nothing. Dagney had dismounted; I realized she was waiting for me to do the same. I slid off Clio.

  Dagney helped me out of my boots and my wet breeches, and into the spare pair I had packed. Then she unbound, salved, and rebound my injured arm, tying it closer and more firmly to my body. I gritted my teeth and stayed still.

  “Ready?” she said, packing away the salve.

  “No,” I said. “I need to check Clio's legs and feet.” I bent to the task, running my good hand along her legs. Should I say something about Cillian, about what I had seen? No, I decided. That was for Donnalch, if it were for anyone. I straightened. “She seems fine,” I said.

  Dagney helped me mount, steadying me as I swung up onto Clio. The men had ridden ahead at a slow jog, keeping the horses moving against the chill of the river fording. We did the same. I was glad of Clio's smooth trot, and Dagney's tighter binding of my arm.

  We caught up to the men after a few minutes. Donnalch slowed the group to a walk. “Ride by me, Lena,” he said. I moved up beside him. The plateau we rode on was gravel and scrubby heath, the ground firm. The fog had lifted, revealing a cloudless blue sky. We rode a while without speaking. I had the impression Donnalch was gathering his thoughts. Cillian rode on his other side, silent, looking forward. I kept glancing at him, looking again for the likeness to Callan. If he noticed, he ignored me.

  I decided to break the silence. I'd had enough of not talking. “Tell me more about the battle at the river,” I said, “if you would, Teannasach.”

  “It was the last battle between Linrathe and the Marai,” he said, “fought in the autumn, after a summer of war. The Marai had been raiding since the spring, all along the coast and up the rivers. The Teannasach at the time, Neilan, had divided his men, sending some to the coast and some to defend the lands and people along the rivers. But most Linrathe's men were at the coast.” His voice took on a rhythm, a thread of formality. I recognized the cadence of a tale told to instruct.

  “Word came that the Marai were up the Tabha,” Donnalch continued. “The summer had been wet, wetter than normal, and so the boats of the Marai could be rowed up the river much further than usual, nearly to this spot. They found naught but sheep; the shepherd lads or lasses had fled at the sight of the boats. But one of those lads at least was fleet of foot, and so word reached his torp quickly, and from there a man and horse rode out across the hills, to find Neilan's army at the coast.”

  Gregor and Ardan had moved closer, Gregor's leg nearly brushing mine as he rode beside me. They would know this tale well, but I guessed they had not heard their Teannasach tell it; this would be a memory to tell their grandchildren, some day.

  “That army marched and ran and climbed, across the mountains and the bogs, and came to the Tabha in two days, under cover of night. They hid in those hills.” The Teannasach pointed, up to the hills to our left. “As the sun rose they saw the Marai on this plain below them. The weather had cleared, and the sun shone, and not knowing their enemy were in the hills, the Marai were at ease, eating and drinking, sleeping, playing games, in the sun on both sides of the Tabha.

  “Neilan said to his men: a quarter of you stay here, in the hills; come only if the battle goes not our way. Then he signalled to the rest, and down they ran out of the hills, swords out, shouting, to take the Marai by surprise. For some time, it looked as if Neilan would take the day: they drove the Marai back across the Tabha, killing many, for they had been without their helms and shields, most able to put hands only to their axes and swords as the men of Linrathe raced down upon them.”

  Donnalch paused, clearing his throat. We had slowed to an amble. He glanced at us, and went on.

  “But Halvar, the leader of the Marai, rallied his men and took them up the beginning of the hills, so that Neilan’s men must come at them uphill. True and valiant as the men of Linrathe were, they had run for two days through deep bog and steep mountains to reach the battle, and exhaustion began to take them. The hidden men, seeing this, made their charge, and they were fresh and rested, and again the day looked to be Linrathe's.

  “The Marai boats were moored some miles downstream, where the river became to steep to row up. Halvar had left men with the boats, and by some means the news of the battle had reached them.” A wry smile crossed Donnalch's face; his eyes were distant. He can see this battle in his mind, I realized, here on the land where it took place.

  “So again, just when the battle had turned to Linrathe, Marai reinforcements arrived, and these with armour and shields. In the end, the battle was not ours, but neither was it theirs. The men fought on and on, into the afternoon. Halvar died, an arrow piercing his throat, and his place was taken by his son-in-law Orri.

  “But as the men fought the skies dimmed, the weather itself matching the darkness of that fight. Huge clouds rose over Beinn Seánfhear, and lightening flashed. The rain in the mountains must have been ferocious, for the river rose in spate, and water rushed down the hillside, breaking the Tabha's banks and flooding the plain. Men from both sides fell; many drowned. Marai clung to Linrathan; men who had been fighting to the death only a moment before helped each other to higher land. It is said that it was Neilan himself who led Orri to safety, at least,” he added, with a glance to Dagney, “by our bards.” He shrugged. “It may have been so. For Orri agreed to a peace, standing on a hillock with Neilan by his side, and by the time the waters had receded both sides had agreed on the Sterre as the boundary between Linrathe and Sorham, and Orri and Neilan took what remained of their armies away.”

  He was done. No one spoke. I looked around me, at the plain and the mountains, and thought about what had happened here, the blood and bones lying beneath the soil.

  “It was long, and bloody, but necessary,” Donnalch said suddenly, in his normal voice. “They wanted our lands, to farm and to settle. To enslave us and displace us, neither of which we could allow.”

  “To impose their way of life,” I said.

  “Aye,” Donnalch agreed. “But the flaw in your argument, Lena—for I can see where you are taking this—is that no one in Linrathe asked the Marai to come. No more than your Empire asked Leste to invade. But the gates of the Wall were opened to us, do not forget.”

  “By a treasonous few,” I replied. “They had no right to do so, no authority.”

  “They would have said they had a moral authority,” Donnalch said. “For while it might not have reached your village, Lena, closer to the Wall, where there is more congress between our peoples, authorised or not,” he smiled slightly as he spoke those words, “there is more wish to see an end to the division of our lands.”

  “And so, you invaded, to free the Empire's women? Without knowing if that is what most of us wanted?”

  “That was only one reason, as I have told you,” he said calmly. “But, Lena, do you know what most of you want? Or do you think there is only one way to live?”

  “What of your women?” I snapped back. “They lack the choice to live as I do, as the women of the Empire do. Surely, they should have that choice too? You sent only boys as hostages: were you afraid of what a girl, a woman, might learn?”

  “That,” Dagney said from just behind me, “is a very good question, Teannasach.”

  “Aye, it is,” Donnalch said finally. He fell silent. My own thoughts roiled. Change: it was what the Emperor had wanted as well, what I had been charged with
speaking of, to women, as I rode south after the successful repulsion of Leste. I did know what most women wanted, at least those of the villages and inns I had visited. But could I tell this to Donnalch? Could I trust him, this man who had led his men into our lands, and had suborned some of our soldiers to his way of thinking?

  In my mind, I heard a junior officer speaking, after the assassination attempt on Callan: Blaine wanted to be Emperor. Blaine's nephew had opened the gates to Donnalch. Had Donnalch and Blaine made some sort of agreement, only to have Blaine fail in his attempt to become Emperor? Was opening the gates the contingency plan?

  I couldn't ask. But surely Callan had, in the long days of talk that had led to this truce of which I stood as surety. Callan, who wanted more choices for his people, men and women. Free choices, I reminded myself, choices made by us, at Assembly, framed by our laws, not imposed by conquest, by the wishes of a few. But if Blaine had become Emperor, what would have happened? He would have acted within our laws too, surely?

  And if so, how many might not have died?

  The thought horrified me. I could not bring myself to believe it. Blaine, who had colluded with not only Donnalch, but with the king of Leste; Blaine, who had orchestrated—or at least made possible—the assassination attempt on Callan. I had no reason to believe he would have acted within the law.

  My question—or Dagney's comment—had silenced Donnalch for the present. I dropped back slightly, trying to piece together understanding from surmise and rumour, partial explanations and memory, and failing utterly. “Only one reason,” Donnalch had said. What were the others?

  I felt like screaming, like kicking Clio hard and galloping away. I didn't understand these people, and I wasn't getting the chance to learn. I went where I was told, and tried to make sense of the bits and pieces of information I got, but I couldn't. The pieces didn't make a whole. ‘Listen to what is said, about Donnalch's leadership, about the war, about what they wish to change. Exchange views on Partition, on your life as a woman of the Empire, our histories.’ my Emperor had instructed me. These were orders, I reminded myself. Calm down, listen, and eventually a story, a pattern, will emerge.

  Behind me, I heard the strings of Dagney's ladhar being plucked. I turned in my saddle. She was tuning the instrument, her horse led by Ardan to free her hands. Satisfied with the tuning, she began to sing.

  The purple heath, the yellow broom,

  Made glad the eye as out we rode,

  To meet and fight at river's edge,

  To hold our lands against the foe.

  A river gleaming on the hill.

  From down the ben the river splashed,

  The Tabha bright in morning sun.

  The Marai north and Linrathe south,

  To fight until the day was done.

  A river gleaming on the hill.

  Ardan's voice, rough but true, joined Dagney's on the chorus.

  A sword was raised, the arrows flew

  Across the burn as thick as rain.

  Below the hill, where field is flat,

  The air was rent with cries of pain.

  A shining river dulled by blood.

  The battle raged, the sun rose high,

  Knee-deep in water men fought on.

  The Marai boats moored down the stream,

  Linrathe's best men up on the ben.

  A shining river dulled by blood.

  By now all the men—even Cillian—were singing the refrain. I stayed silent, listening.

  When bodies thick served as a bridge

  And neither side could take the day,

  The hidden men came forth to fight

  Among the fallen where they lay.

  A river red and thick with blood.

  As evening fell and still they fought,

  Both sides with numbers grievous few,

  A shout came from the river's flow:

  “Enough!” the cry, a voice none knew.

  A river red and thick with blood.

  Swords fell from hands; men stood as stone

  As from the river words poured forth:

  “I say enough. Go from this place,

  And live in peace, both south and north.”

  An angry river flowing red.

  “For red my waters flow today,

  And silver only should they be.

  Bury your dead here on my banks,

  Forget not what you heard from me.”

  An angry river flowing red.

  “For peace I want and peace I'll have

  Or watch my waters rise and flow

  To drown this land and all within,

  Both north and south, both high and low.”

  A peace enforced by river's god.

  Both sides obeyed, the cairns were raised

  Against the raven, kite and crow.

  The Tabha's peace has long remained,

  No man would dare not keep it so.

  A peace enforced by river's god.

  A river gleaming on the hill.

  A shining river dulled by blood.

  An angry river flowing red.

  A peace enforced by river's god.

  No man would dare not keep it so.

  The notes of the ladhar died away. The call of a curlew drifted over the moor, over our small and silent band, over the burial mounds I could now see on either side of the path, mournful, ancient, eternal.

  Chapter Nine

  “Of course,” Cillian said, after we had ridden in silence for some minutes, “the river did not speak. The minds and voices of men spoke, seeing the futility of the battle and the loss, but better it be remembered that they obeyed a spirit of the waters than admit to conceding the day.”

  “Maybe,” Gregor said. “But you were not there, Cillian, and I myself have heard voices in the wind and water more than once. I would not be too quick to doubt.”

  “Whether the voice was that of a river god, or that of the conscience of men,” Dagney added, “the battle ended when the river rose, and we have kept the Tabha's peace.” Her voice trailed off. She was looking ahead, her brow furrowed. I glanced at the men; they too stared ahead. Donnalch raised a hand. We halted. Across the plateau, I could see a pair of horsemen, galloping towards us.

  “They are Marai,” long-sighted Gregor said, “wearing the colours of King Herlief.”

  The men exchanged glances. “He is dead, then?” Donnalch murmured. No one replied.

  The horsemen galloped closer. We waited. When they were still some distance away, Gregor spoke again. “Their cloaks are bordered with black points. These are the Earl Fritjof's men, Teannasach, not the King's, and one of them is not Marai, but Linrathan.”

  “Fritjof sailed west two years ago,” Ardan said, “looking for their promised land of grapes and honey. I had not heard he had returned.”

  “King Herlief forced him to go,” Donnalch said quietly, “after he nearly killed his brother in a fight. Over what, I cannot recall.”

  I saw the men push their own cloaks back, making it easier to reach for their weapons. What was happening? I transferred Clio's reins to my left hand, holding them as best I could. I would need the right for my secca.

  The approaching men slowed their horses to a trot. Hands on reins, they showed no sign of reaching for weapons. Both men were of medium height, with close-cropped light hair. Over a tunic and breeches of brown they wore cloaks of blue and green, pinned with large circular brooches and edged, as Gregor had said, with a black border patterned into points.

  The Teannasach walked his horse forward a few steps. “Niáll,” he called, “what brings you into Linrathe, wearing the livery of Earl Fritjof?”

  “Teannasach,” one replied. He reined his horse in, inclining his head to Donnalch. “We came as messengers, not expecting to find you riding out in the land. We bring news: King Herlief is dead. Fritjof is king now. He asks that you make haste: he wishes your presence at the burial rites and his crowning, but neither can be delayed.” His eyes flicked to Dagney and me. T
he second rider reached for something. My muscles tensed, but he brought a rolled paper from the top his saddlebag, holding it out.

  “The King himself wrote this,” Niáll said. Donnalch rode forward to take it. Circling back, he returned to his place between Gregor and Ardan before unrolling it. He read quickly, then bent his head to say something to Ardan, who nodded.

  “I am honoured that your King has asked me to be present at these ceremonies,” Donnalch said, his voice formal. “But there is one of my party who is injured and cannot ride at speed; nor would I ask such of the Lady Dagney. We will need to make arrangements for them, before I ride north with you. Twenty minutes, and I will be ready.”

  Fritjof's two men glanced at each other. The one who had spoken nodded. “As you wish, Teannasach,” he said. “We will wait for you at those trees ahead. There is a stream there, to water our horses.” They reined their horses round and rode off at a trot.

  When they were out of earshot, Ardan spoke. “Do you trust them, Teannasach?” he asked.

  “Herleif's death was expected,” Donnalch replied, “and the seal is Fritjof's. I would not recognize his hand, even if he did write the words himself. I believe the men are from Fritjof; I had heard that Niáll had taken Fritjof's coin. Whether I trust them—or Fritjof—is another question; not really, is the answer. The Earl was ever a plotter, subtle and fluid in his allegiances, but his eye was always on the throne. He has it now, over his brother, it appears. I wonder if Ǻsmund, too, is dead,” he added quietly, as if to himself.

  “Why should it matter if you are there for the rituals?” Ardan growled. Clearly, he was unhappy with this turn of events.

  “It gives legitimacy,” Cillian said. “If Fritjof is crowned in the presence of another country's leader, this will be seen to be wider acknowledgement of his right to rule.”