Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy

by Marian L Thorpe

  “Can you read the ones from Heræcria?”

  “About as well as you could read the ones in Casilan, käresta,” he admitted. “A word here and there. I would still like to see them, though.”

  “I would like to see their practice grounds and barracks, and know how their soldiers are trained,” Turlo said. I wondered if it was a rebuke: we were talking about books, when we were here to ask for military help.

  “Sorley,” Cillian said mildly, “you are going to have to remember your Casilan quickly. I cannot translate for Turlo in the barracks and Irmgard in the palace at the same time.”

  And was that a reminder to Turlo to put first things first?

  “Aye,” Turlo said. “The Lady Irmgard may have to make do with you, if you are willing, Sorley. I will need my adjutant.” I frowned, slightly. There was some tension here.

  “I'll do my best,” Sorley said. “Cillian, do you want to play xache?”

  “Why not?” Sorley went in search of the pieces and the kidskin; Irmgard's box of treasure had been brought from the ship, I learned. Cillian went to find Sergius, who appeared carrying a table. He placed it in a well-lit area of the room, moved stools to either side, and left, after a look to Cillian, who thanked him.

  Turlo moved to watch them play, and after a minute or two I fetched my journal and began to write. Over the course of the afternoon, I played Sorley, and then Turlo, and finally Cillian.

  “In Linrathe, who was good enough to give you a challenge?” I asked, after losing.

  “Perras,” he answered. “Donnalch, although he rarely agreed to play me, and Alain was almost good enough. And,” he smiled, remembering, “Dagney is very good. As is your father, Sorley,” he acknowledged.

  “I remember you playing him one evening,” Sorley said, “before I came to the Ti'ach. I might have been sixteen?”

  Cillian ran a hand through his hair. “Early spring,” he said. “I stayed three days.

  “Yes.”

  “I gave you and your brother a xache lesson the next day, and then we flew hawks for mountain hare in the afternoon, did we not?”

  “You remember,” Sorley said, looking pleased.

  “Yes,” he said. “And then you played for us that evening, and there was dancing.” Something flickered in his eyes, vanished. “Would you play for us now?”

  “If Rind will lend me the ladhar,” Sorley said. “I'll go ask.”

  I had watched Cillian's face during the conversation with Sorley. A moment of constraint there, I thought. What had he remembered? But he had recovered, quickly, appearing comfortable with Sorley, and generous, I decided, offering him friendship and affection. If I were Sorley, could I learn to accept that as enough? Had Maya treated me this way, I might have stayed in Casilla.

  Sorley came back with the ladhar. “The lady Irmgard asks if you would go to speak with her, Cillian. After the music will do, she says.”

  “I'll go now,” Cillian decided. “She has questions, no doubt, and she should not be kept waiting.”

  Sorley tuned the ladhar and began to play a tune. He did not sing, just played the light, almost plaintive notes quietly. I sat cross-legged on my stool, listening. The song was not sad, quite; melancholy would be a better word. I closed my eyes, wanting to think about all that had happened in the last day. I was in Casil, city of legend, a city I hadn't really believed was real, and was magnificent beyond what I could have imagined. I remembered the look in Cillian's eyes, and Turlo's too, as we had sailed in, past the lighthouse and the wharves. What had they seen? Turlo, I thought, saw the Empire unconquered, the belief and hope proven true. And Cillian? A centre of learning, of poetry and thought and art, a place where his agile mind could be tested and refined. The place I had hoped we would find for him.

  I heard Cillian come back down the stairs, but I didn't move, or open my eyes for a minute. When I did, he was standing at the sideboard, turned slightly away from me. He was pouring wine, a glass goblet in one hand, the jug in the other, his head bent towards his task, dark hair falling over his forehead. The sleeves of his tunic were rolled up above his wrists, the pale fabric contrasting with his tanned skin. How I love you, I thought. I will not let my bad dreams come between us.

  He turned to see me looking at him. Smiling, he offered me the wine. I shook my head. Sorley still played, a soft melody. Very far away, distant from wine and music and the symbolic battles of xache, a war raged in my land, in all our lands. It would be easy to forget that in this city, to lose ourselves in its comforts and civility.

  Sergius came in, quietly. In his hand was a rolled scroll. He handed it to Cillian. Turlo sat up; Sorley stopped playing. Cillian read the letter.

  “We—Turlo and Irmgard and I, as the translator—are summoned to the palace, later tonight, for an audience with the Empress. After the evening meal. An escort will be sent.”

  He spoke to the waiting Sergius, who inclined his head before leaving. “We will need the appropriate clothes, which Sergius will see to,” he told Turlo. “We should prepare Irmgard; will you come with me, General?”

  Sorley spoke, after they had left. “So, it begins,” he said.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Dinner that night was served on the flat roof of the first level, the sun dipping towards the sea. Sergius served us, and then left us to ourselves. We ate more of the warm bread, with a rich, tangy oil to dip it in, crisp greens, and chicken roasted with honey and spices. There was more wine, but both Cillian and Turlo watered it well and drank sparingly.

  Prisca came in with a plate of pastries and a mug of tea for me. I sniffed it: anash. “Gratiás,” I told Prisca. The pastries were sticky, soaked through with honey, but Prisca had returned once again with small bowls of water, and cloths, and either through tact or usual practice, she took my hand, dipped my fingers in the bowl, and wiped them, showing us all what to do. I smiled at her, and picked up my tea, preparing myself for its bitterness, especially after the pastry. But she had put honey in it, too, thankfully.

  Cillian pushed his stool back. “We should dress,” he said. “Lena, join me?”

  I carried the mug of tea into the bedroom, closing the door behind me. The clothes Sergius had chosen for him lay folded on the bed. “Talk to me while I get ready,” he said, already stripping off his tunic.

  “When did you find time to ask Prisca about the anash?” I asked.

  “Before we played xache, when I went downstairs to find Sergius,” he replied. “She did not seem bothered by the conversation. It's called benedis, here, by the way.”

  “Thank you. Running out now we have some privacy again would have been inconvenient.”

  He laughed. “But not unsurmountable, you know.”

  “I know.” The tea I'd been making for some days had been very weak; I was glad to be drinking a stronger brew tonight. Cillian had gone to wash. I finished the tea, waiting.

  He came out drying his face. “This is not how I hoped to spend tonight, käresta,” he said. “At least let me hold you.” I went into his arms. As I ran my hands up his back, I could feel the tension.

  “Are you worrying about this audience?” I asked.

  “A bit,” he admitted. “More than a bit.”

  “Sorley said you were magnificent, at Sylana.”

  “Sylana is not Casil, and Sorley is not an unbiased judge,” he answered, but he seemed to relax a little.

  “You have met an Emperor before,” I reminded him. “And his blood runs in your veins. Remember that, when you face this Empress.”

  “That might just help,” he said after a minute. He kissed my hair, and then, in a lighter tone, added, “I thought it didn't matter to you that I was Callan's son?”

  “It doesn't, and you know it,” I answered. “But it's useful, sometimes. Now you had better finish dressing. Turlo will be getting impatient. I'll go and placate him.”

  I went out to the sitting room. Turlo paced before the windows, dressed in what our steward had deemed appropriate for a gen
eral: a fawn-brown tunic and a short, darker cloak, banded with a deep green and fastened with a pin of copper inlaid with green stones. I wondered if Sergius had chosen the cloak and brooch with Turlo's hair in mind. “Turlo,” I said. “You look uncommonly handsome.”

  “Aye,” he acknowledged. “It is all necessary to give the right impression to the Empress, I suppose. Is Cillian ready?”

  “Nearly,” I replied. “He is just dressing.”

  As I spoke the door to our room opened, and Cillian stepped out. Turlo and I turned. “By the god!” I heard Turlo say. My breath caught. Sergius had selected clothes in shades of grey, the tunic pale. The cloak was a darker grey; its band was white, and the pin silver. Cillian looked polished, and beautiful. He also looked almost exactly like his father.

  “Was this your doing, Turlo?” Cillian asked quietly.

  “How could it be? I cannot speak the language. It is coincidence only, mo charaidh.”

  I stared at Cillian, remembering. Callan, dressed in his grey robe edged with white, his silver pendant of rank shining in the torchlight, sentencing us at the White Fort. The resemblance was strong. But it was more than the clothes, I realized, and more, even, than the physical likeness of facial bones and hair and height. Regardless of his private doubts, Cillian exuded a quiet confidence. He is meant to be a leader, an influential man, Turlo had said to me, not so very long ago. I shivered, suddenly, an inchoate foreboding suddenly threatening. There will be women here, I thought, who share his love of learning and thought, who could provide a challenge for him at xache, and speak to him in Casilan.

  “I expect Sergius chose these clothes to make me unobtrusive, then,” Cillian said.

  “Not the word I would use,” Turlo said under his breath.

  Sorley, hearing voices, came out from his room. He stopped, looking from Turlo to Cillian. “Well,” he said, in exactly the right tone, “don't you two clean up well?” Oh, Sorley, perfect, I thought, as both Turlo and Cillian began to laugh. Footsteps on the stairs from the third floor made us all turn. Irmgard descended, followed by Rind.

  The men stopped laughing. She wore a dress of pure white, except for the hem and the ends of the sleeves, where a narrow band of purple edged the white, and her cloak was also white, with the same narrow purple edging, but fringed in gold. Her hair was dressed high, and she wore golden earrings. She was a princess, and dressed to acknowledge it.

  "Ǻdla,” Cillian greeted her. “These are the clothes provided for you?”

  “They are,” she answered.

  “You understand the importance of this? That your rank has been recognized?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I do. I remember Ǻsmund telling me this, once. This is good, yes?”

  “Very good,” Cillian answered. She smiled, looking from Cillian to Turlo.

  “The steward has chosen well for you both, too,” she observed. “You are most suitable to accompany me.”

  “Glad to hear it, lady Irmgard,” Turlo said. A clatter of boots on the stairs, and Sergius led two soldiers into the room.

  “Our escort,” Cillian said. He glanced at me, smiled, and walked behind Turlo and Irmgard, down the stairs. Sorley and I watched them go.

  “What did I walk in on?” Sorley asked. “There was a bit of tension, I thought.”

  “You wouldn't know, of course,” I said. “It was Cillian. By some chance, Sergius chose clothes for him in the colours Callan wears when he is—formally being the Emperor, I suppose. Dressed in them, Cillian looks so much like him. It took both Turlo and me by surprise.”

  “He has changed, more than I could have thought possible,” Sorley said quietly.

  “More than I can know,” I said. “Turlo says he is very much like his father at the same age.” I hesitated. “Sorley, did you feel some strain between them, earlier? When Cillian said you would need to translate?”

  “Yes. But I wouldn't worry about it. My guess is Turlo is feeling out of place, whereas Cillian seems very much at home, wouldn't you say? Do you want to play xache?”

  “No,” I answered, after a moment's consideration. “Forgive me, Sorley, but I am tired. I think I will try to sleep.”

  “No matter,” he answered. “I will go and talk to Rind and Hana. Sleep well, Lena.”

  “Before you go,” I said, “could you ask Sergius for wine for our room? Cillian may well want some, when he returns.”

  “I can,” he said, grinning. “Wine and beer are among the words I didn't forget. I'll have him place some in Turlo's room, too.”

  “Thank you, Sorley.” He went downstairs, and I sat again, waiting for Sergius. He appeared quickly, carrying a tray with a flask of wine and two glasses. In the bedroom, he placed them on the low table. “Gratiás,” I offered, receiving a nod in return. He slipped quietly out.

  An oil lamp burned, giving just enough light to see by. I lay on the bed. I wanted to sleep, but my mind churned with images and feelings: the streets and buildings and crowds of the city; the luxury of the baths, the comfort of this house. I wondered what face of Casil I would have seen, had Cillian and I made it here on our own. Would that have even been possible?

  Not even worth thinking about, I told myself. But if we had, my mind persisted, he would still be mine, not this sophisticated, refined man I do not know. Very much at home, Sorley had just said. I turned, restlessly. Stop it, I told myself. He is still Cillian, still wanting my reassurance, my touch, tonight. What is really bothering me?

  I had briefly yearned for a different touch, earlier today. The desire had felt like betrayal.

  I got up, poured myself wine. Then I wrapped a robe I found hanging on the door around me and went out into the sitting room again. I stood, listening: no sounds from the upper floor. I crossed the room and tapped on Sorley's door.

  “Lena,” he said, opening the door, obviously surprised. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes. No. Sorley, can we talk?”

  “Of course. Out in the sitting room, I think, just in case one of the servants comes in?”

  The wine from earlier still sat on the sideboard. Sorley poured a glass. We settled on the couch. “What is it?” he said gently.

  “Do you know what happened to me, in the Kurzemë village?” I asked.

  “Not really.”

  “Ivor, the headwoman's son, raped me,” I said. I had finally said the words.

  He closed his eyes. “I thought perhaps.”

  “I killed him, though,” I added.

  “Good for you,” he said softly. “But you are all right, now?”

  “Yes and no. Sorley, are you sure you can hear this?”

  “Go on.”

  “Cillian was away when...when it happened, and when I told him, and afterwards...he was so gentle with me. He has helped me heal, as much as I have, but Sorley, that healing is only for him. With him. But today, at the baths...”

  “Yes?”

  “Were you massaged?”

  “Yes.”

  “As were we. Were your attendants male or female?”

  “Male. I assume yours were women?”

  “Yes. Sorley, you know I have loved women. Today, the touch...aroused me, a little.”

  He sipped his wine. “If I am honest, it did the same for me. Why is this bothering you, Lena?”

  “Is it not a betrayal?” I asked.

  “Ah,” he said. He was silent, considering. “No,” he said finally, “I do not think it is. I think you are forgetting that you both have past experiences and that neither of you are strangers to desire. Regardless of what Cillian may have chosen, six years past, he was a man of twenty-eight when he made that choice. I doubt he is immune to—to the right stimulus, either. Why should you be different?”

  “I suppose,” I said.

  “The betrayal would come if you acted on the desire,” Sorley added. “In that way, Lena—among many others—I am glad you two are together, because it frees me from that feeling of disloyalty. I do not have Cillian's strength of will, and a l
ife of celibacy has not been possible, for me.”

  “Oh, Sorley,” I murmured.

  “It is all right, Lena,” he said. “It is odd, but I feel as if I belong to myself again, after all these years. I still love him, but differently.” He put a hand on mine. “Listen to me talking about myself, when it was your concerns I was meant to listen to.”

  “But you did,” I answered. He had, although his words had both calmed a fear, and fed another.

  “There is something else, too,” he said. “In the Empire, Lena, what if your life had been different, and you had stayed in Tirvan with Maya, and you had chosen to have a child? Would you not have been in the opposite situation, feeling desire for a man, then?”

  “That would be from necessity,” I argued.

  “But not without its pleasures, surely?”

  “Well,” I said, “I hope not. I cannot speak for all women, though.”

  “All women do not matter here.”

  I had refused Dern, regardless of physical attraction, because I would have been disloyal to Maya. But I had never denied his ability to arouse me, not then. Why was today's reaction any different?

  “Thank you, Sorley,” I said. “You are right, of course. I needed another view, and,” I tried a grin, “I didn't think I could talk to Turlo about this. I hope you didn't mind.”

  “Not at all. I wanted an opportunity to tell you how things were changing for me, anyhow.” He smiled. “But tonight, in those formal clothes—he is beautiful, isn't he?”

  “He is,” I agreed. I leaned over and kissed Sorley on the cheek. “I am so glad you are here with us.” He put an arm around my shoulders.

  “Thank you for trusting me,” he answered. “Ah, Lena,” he added, “we are a bit like two planets orbiting the same sun, are we not? Maybe we need each other, to reflect just enough of his brilliance so that neither of us are consumed.”

  Later, just as I was falling asleep, I considered Sorley's last words to me. There was a different truth in them, but I couldn't reach it, not now. He is such a good friend, I thought, and then I slept.