The ivory and amber given, we were free to go. We had two hours until the tide. Turlo turned to Cillian. “I suggest you sleep, until just before we sail, but I have one last thing to ask of you. Will you walk with me along the jetty?”
I went to pick up my journal, to record the day's events. I heard my name; the breeze blew towards the ship, carrying the words. “Can you be impartial and tell me if she is fit to fight?” Turlo asked. “I am aware of what has happened to my Guard. But unpredictability is dangerous.”
“I have not the experience to make that judgment,” Cillian answered. “But I can tell you with certainty that the same thing will happen again, if Lena is startled from behind, and feels threatened.”
“Aye,” Turlo said. “Even you?”
“I try not to approach her that way, or if I must, to say something to her as I do.”
He always called my name, if he came up to me from behind. I stayed still, listening.
“You are sure you are not injured?”
“A scratch where the secca brushed me, and there will be a bruise on my left ankle.”
“Aye, well, I've had worse over the years from pulling apart fighting cadets,” Turlo said, with a laugh. “Your first wounds of war. But may I stop being your general, and presume to be your friend?”
“No presumption, Turlo.”
“Then may I say that I am concerned, a bit, for you both? This will be a hard balance, now you outrank her, and while that may seem of little consequence now it will not be, if things go as we hope. Officers of the Empire know that they may have to send their sons to almost-certain death, and that is difficult enough. Could you send her into desperate battle, Cillian?”
“No,” Cillian said. “I doubt I can.”
“That is why I asked as a friend,” Turlo said. “So I will tell you both, later, that Lena is under my direct command, bypassing you. Not a usual arrangement, but nothing is usual, any more.” He paused. “May I ask one more thing?”
“Of course.”
“I am not sure this is even a question, and you do not need to answer, mind. But Lena is very dear to me. You are much older than she is, Cillian.”
“I am,” Cillian answered. “I am not unaware of this, Turlo. Would such a difference in years be of consequence, in the Empire?”
“No. Not quite, although it approaches what we consider unsuitable,” Turlo said. “Ah, what does it matter anyhow?” he added. “Just take care of her, mo charaidh.”
“I will,” Cillian said. “I am sworn to. Ar fosidh di, mo chaol iômhlán.”
“To shelter her, all your life?”
“Yes. As best I can.”
“It was more than I could do, for my Arey,” Turlo said, so quietly I barely heard the words.
“I am sorry, Turlo. I have some idea, now, of what pain you must feel.”
“Aye,” Turlo replied. “And I hope you never feel it. You need to sleep. I'll send for you, when it's time to sail.”
I turned away. Shelter me. My own words to him, about how he made me feel, turned into a promise. Sorley had said our vows fit. I saw why. My thoughts returned to earlier in the day, to my thoughts about language, about words spoken and words understood, and the gap that could exist between those two things. He had been, was, would always be sanctuary and refuge for me. Not protection: that was not possible, in the world as it was, or in any world. He understood that, I thought. As best I can. It was all any of us could do.
Part III
...a towering pride in his sensibility, and an endearing disposition to be a hero. Fry
Chapter Thirteen
I thought I was a good sailor, but those first days on a Marai ship taught me otherwise. Even well-ballasted with rocks, the ship lacked the stability I was used to on Dovekie, and until we had become used to the sway, everyone but the Marai men—and even one or two of them—was seasick and wretched. I cannot imagine what the voyage would have been like in bad weather. But the sun shone, and the wind blew steadily from the west, the rectangular sail billowing out and sending us forward. By the third day out, I had found my sea-legs and my stomach had stopped writhing.
Turlo looked pale and drawn, but his spirits were high this morning. Cillian and Sorley were less cheerful, being careful with the food provided for breakfast. As the morning went on and breakfast stayed down, Sorley especially began to recover. Mid-morning, he approached Cillian, who was sitting, arms around his knees, doing nothing. Recovering, I thought; three days of seasickness on top of his efforts at Sylana had left him drained. Sorley crouched beside him. “Imirdh xache liovha, mo charaidh?[11]" he said.
“Xache?” Cillian replied, clearly puzzled.
“Thá[12]. Faich[13].” He opened the skin bag he carried, to take out intricately carved game pieces. They must be part of Irmgard's treasure. How did he convince her to let him use them? Cillian took one, turning it in his fingers. “Hálainn[14],” he murmured.
“Thá,” Sorley agreed. From beneath his arm he took a rolled kidskin, spreading it out on the deck to reveal inked black squares alternating with plain ones. Suddenly, Cillian grinned. “Lena,” he called, “come here, would you?” He gave me the game piece. “Hold it behind your back, in one hand. You choose,” he said to Sorley.
“Left,” Sorley said. I held out the game piece.
“I will go first,” Sorley elected. “It is the only advantage I will have, no doubt.”
Cillian would be all right, I decided. I had been too sick myself these last days to give him the attention I thought I should have. Not that there was much I could do. I had ginger root, dug at the lake, and I had made a tea with it for us all, but if it was effective, the results didn't last for long. I couldn't keep the anash down, either, but I didn't think it mattered: I had been drinking it regularly the last time we made love, and there would be no other time now until Casil, at least.
I made my way to the stern, where Turlo stood. “Feeling better?” I asked him.
“Aye. But I know why I didn't choose the ships when I was twelve.”
“I did, and it didn't help. Every boat is different. We should be fine now, unless we hit bad weather,” I told him.
“Then let's hope we don't,” he replied with feeling. I glanced back at where the two men played xache.
“Thank you for that,” I said, indicating the game with a movement of my head.
“I will give them today to recover and enjoy some leisure, but tomorrow we need to begin planning.” Turlo said.
“What do we need to do?”
“Several things. Mostly falling on Cillian, again, I'm afraid. We will need letters, to be sent to whomever makes such decisions about allowing us to see the Empress. I want to keep the lady Irmgard's petition separate from ours.”
We knew more, now, from the trader who had given the map and his advice. Casil had an Empress, Eudekia, ruling as regent for her baby son after her husband had died last year. They were at war, he said, a long-standing conflict with an eastern neighbour that didn't seem to affect trade, but treaty negotiations had begun before the Emperor's death, and he thought they probably were at peace now. When Cillian had relayed that, the first evening on the ship before seasickness had taken hold of us, we had exchanged dubious glances. Surely there was more reason to think Casil would have been defeated, under those circumstances? But Cillian had asked and the trader captain had been unworried: when he'd been there last, only a few weeks earlier with the spring trade of furs, the talk of the port had been no different than many previous visits.
Turlo glanced to the prow where Irmgard and her women lay on furs. They had been equally seasick. “So, Cillian will need to write that letter, and then another, detailing who we are and what we are asking.”
“Sorley can write in Casilan, as well,” I pointed out.
“Aye, I know. But not with the skill in diplomacy Cillian can.”
“That can't be all.”
“No. What are we asking for? What can we offer them, in return? What
do we do if they say yes to Irmgard and no to us? If she wishes to keep her ship and her oarsmen, we have no way to return home, except overland. And many other questions that will arise from those discussions.”
“I see,” I said. “We are making some large assumptions about Casil, aren't we?” I added. “That their idea of Empire is the same as ours; that they will remember us, or believe us, and care.”
“Aye. All of those.”
“Callan was truly desperate, wasn't he? To send you, one of his best generals, and a friend, on such an impossible quest?”
“He was, lassie. You have to be prepared that we will go home to a land lost and a people defeated, if we get home.” He sighed. “But that must not influence our planning. And another thing to do, for my adjutant: I want him to teach us some basic Casilan.”
Laughter from Sorley, followed by a stream of Linrathan. “He lost in six moves,” Turlo said. “He is berating himself for ever thinking he could play.”
“Cillian plays exceedingly well,” I said.
“Of course he does,” Turlo said. “It is a game of strategy and tactics, determining what the effects of each move could be not just in the immediate but several turns ahead. Callan has no equal at it, although I'm not sure who I'd wager on, if he and Cillian were playing.” He considered. “Probably Callan, at that: he has the years of experience.”
“Lena,” Sorley called, “come and play Cillian, so I can see someone else be humiliated.”
The game had, of course, attracted spectators. I remembered Dern telling me once that soldiers bet on anything; it appeared the Marai did, too. “You play him,” I suggested to Turlo.
“Aye, maybe I will. Not that I'll win.”
Nor did he, although I could see he gave Cillian a better battle than I would have, by far. Then, reluctantly, I played Sorley, with Cillian and Turlo watching. Sorley beat me, but only after a fair fight. He bagged the pieces, carefully. “I better give these back to Irmgard; she will allow us to use them, but she wants them under her care, otherwise.”
Both Turlo and Cillian looked better for the time spent playing; more colour in their faces, and brighter eyes. Cillian stood up, stretching. “I might even be hungry,” he said, sounding surprised.
“Just eat lightly,” I warned. “A little food, every few hours.”
“General,” Irmgard called, from the bow. He went to her, then beckoned us over. She was sitting up, looking pale, but like the rest us recovered from the worst of the sea-sickness. “I have something for each of you,” she announced. “To show my gratitude, in what you did to make us free of that town.”
“General,” she said, handing Turlo a silver armband decorated with animal heads. “For you.” He took it, surprising me by bowing.
“Lady Irmgard,” he said, “thank you.” He slipped it on; it fit his arm well.
Sorley's gift was a thinner armband, and mine was an amber pendant with an insect embedded in the stone. “Takkë, Lady Irmgard,” I said, “Takkë. It is beautiful.”
She turned to Cillian. “Cillian na Perras,” she said. “I would have a private word with you, if you will?”
“ǺdlaIrmgard, of course,” he answered. We had been dismissed. From the stern, I tried not to watch them. Cillian rejoined us after a few minutes.
“What did she give you?”
“An apology, and this.” He showed me a small ivory pot, carved with a running, intertwined ribbon. “It's an ink pot, or can be used as one.”
“It's lovely. What did she need to apologize for?” He didn't answer, but with a movement of his head beckoned me away from the others.
“For her assumptions about me, and also about you.”
“I see,” I said. “Even in Varsland?”
“If it served my purpose, yes,” he said. “I will not be dishonest about this, Lena.”
For a moment it felt as if I did not know him. A thought struck me. “Not—?”
He laughed, gently. “No. Not Irmgard, of course, and not these serving women, either. That would have been difficult. And it was many years ago, käresta. I am not that man, any longer.”
For the next week we sailed eastward, a steady wind keeping us on course. Every few days we anchored at spots shown on the map to take on fresh water, and sometimes fishing boats from scattered villages hailed us, or followed us for a while, but without aggression.
When the ship was under sail, we could practice on deck with a sword in a limited way. There wasn't room for two people to take each other on, but the guards and strikes still could be rehearsed. I felt the motions getting easier as my muscles regained strength, and this was true for all of us, I thought. With Geiri's approval, I tried line fishing, as much for something to do rather than trying to provide fresh food. I did catch some fish, but I was glad we weren't relying on me to feed us.
Turlo kept Cillian busy. Writing on the deck of a ship wasn't easy, as I knew from my journal, and writing formal letters, where the appearance of the letter mattered as well as what it said, was a challenge. I heard him curse more than once and sigh, before carefully scraping the vellum to erase an error caused by a lurch in the ship, or a slip of the pen.
But mostly, we talked. Sometimes just the four of us, sometimes with Irmgard. Every possible outcome at Casil was analyzed, debated, argued. Irmgard was in tears when Cillian and Turlo made her understand that the fiction Cillian had proposed at Sylana, a negotiated marriage, might be the best protection for her in Casil. “Not right away, and not to the first man who offers,” Turlo said. “But your resources will not last forever, and you will be vulnerable, my lady. You must consider it.”
“I will have Geiri, and his men, to protect me,” she argued.
“How long can you pay them?” Cillian asked gently. “And house you and your women, and the men, and feed you all? Ǻdla, I know you mourn Ǻsmund, and I know you loved him. But you must think of what will be best for you.”
She wiped her tears. “How strange still, to hear you speak of love, laerth. There was a time you would have only acknowledged that I mourned. Would you give Lena the same advice?”
“To do what is best for her, for her survival, yes,” Cillian said. “But Lena's skills are not yours, Ǻdla, and it might be her ability with bow and sword, or with fishing, for all I know, that would give her other choices. Not ones you have.”
She smiled, sadly. “I will think about this. I would not be Fritjof's plaything, I who have been Ǻsmund's wife. But perhaps, in time, a good man, of sufficient rank. I will need to think more.” With a word to Rind and Hana, she withdrew to the bow.
“Geiri does not plan to stay,” Sorley said quietly.
“No?” Turlo asked.
“No. He hates Fritjof passionately. Ǻsmund was his lord, and he wants his chance to avenge him. There are several of the men who feel the same.”
“Aye, well, they'll be welcome,” Turlo said. “But the lady Irmgard will not be pleased.”
So Geiri harbours the cold, still blade of vengeance in him too. Aloud, I said, “fewer mouths to feed, though.”
If he felt as I did, he would not be swayed, I was certain. The talk turned to how many soldiers and ships and weapons Casil might send. This was pure speculation, and Turlo stopped it quickly. “We must be precise in what we ask,” he said. “What is it we need most?”
“Ships,” Sorley said, “to meet the Marai at sea.”
“Archers,” I added. “The Marai do not use bows, and we can kill men before they leave the ships, or from a distance if they are on land.”
“Both good ideas,” Turlo said.
“I'll make notes.” Cillian began to get up, to fetch pen and paper, but Sorley stopped him.
“You do enough,” he said. “I can write this, as it's only for us.”
“Thank you.” Sorley gave him a quick grin and went off for the equipment. Cillian needing him at Sylana, to instruct him on tariffs and check the figures, had benefited Sorley, I thought. He was finding ways to be with him that w
ere—what? Bearable, I supposed.
Other than the occasional game of xache, and music and stories of an evening, every day passed in much the same way. I thought the lack of privacy to relieve ourselves would disconcert Irmgard and her women, but they took it in stride, balancing on the edge of the ship as needed. I, like the men, stripped and swam every couple of days, preferring the salt on my skin and in my hair over not feeling clean. Sometimes, the other women joined me, although Geiri kept the Marai men's eyes away from Irmgard. When my bleeding time began, a week or so after we sailed, I swam daily, and sometimes twice a day. But its onset made me realize how much had happened in one brief month.
A few days later, a day dawned with little wind. As the sea-anchor was hauled up, Geiri ordered the men back to rowing. The sea lay smooth until after the sun had reached its zenith, and the glare off the water hurt my eyes. And not just mine. One of the oarsmen—Rafn—began to complain, I learned through Sorley, of headache.
I used some of my willow-bark to make a drink for the man. But by mid-afternoon he was worse, aching all over. The wind had risen and we were travelling under sail again. More willow-bark did nothing. As evening fell, he began to shake.
“Fever,” Sorley said. I touched the man's skin. It was clammy. A hint of fear appeared in my mind.
“Cillian,” I called. He came over. “What do you remember about the Eastern Fever?”
He crouched beside me. “Very little. What do you want to know?”
“Symptoms, I suppose. Treatment. Anything.”
“You would need someone from the Ti'ach na Iorlath for that. Are you not jumping to conclusions? This could be any summer fever, from bad food, perhaps?”
“He hasn't been sick, or had loose bowels. Look at him, Cillian.”
The man's teeth chattered as he shook. Geiri put furs over him. Sorley had gone to speak to the Marai women. “They have no ideas,” he said when he returned.
“Anash will not hurt him,” I said, wondering if that were true. “And it is the only remedy I know with any connection to the Eastern Fever.” I thought about my supply; there was enough.
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