Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy

by Marian L Thorpe

  The physician asked a question. “He'd like to know about medicine in our lands. I can tell him about the Ti'ach na Iorlath, and how our healers are trained, but how is it done, in the Empire?”

  “I can't answer for the army,” I said, “except to say they train medics. In the villages, it is an apprenticeship, as for all our work.”

  Another question. “Do your women's healers do surgery?”

  “No,” I said. “They set broken bones, treat ailments with herbs and teas, and perhaps excise a festering thorn, but not surgery. Unless pulling a rotting tooth is surgery.”

  Gnaius laughed politely at that. “Gratiás,” he said, rising. He and Sorley walked back to where he would disembark, still talking. I put my anash back in my pack. I would need it against the pain of my bleeding time, in a few days.

  Rufin and Cillian and Turlo returned from Sylana, looking relaxed. “Rufin believes there is little in the agreement we signed earlier that will be a problem,” Cillian told me. “Mihae sent his greetings to you, by the way.”

  “How nice of him,” I said drily. I told Cillian what Gnaius had told me. “I might have saved Detlef, had I known to dilute the anash.”

  “You did your best,” Cillian said gently.

  “I know,” I said. “But I was diluting the tea for myself. Why didn't I think of it for him?”

  “Geiri couldn't get him to drink even water,” Cillian reminded me. He stretched, flexing his arms above his head, and I heard a seam on his tunic tear. His shoulder and back muscles had grown, from the daily training with the swords. He swore.

  “Change to another tunic and I'll fix it,” I said.

  “I can do it. Fifteen years of solitary travel did teach me a few useful skills.”

  “I'm glad to hear it,” I said. “But I need to do something with my own, for the same reason. Putting a few stitches into yours will only take a minute or two.” Mine were too tight as well, pulling uncomfortably across my breasts, making them sore. I'd need to let them out a bit at the seams.

  I sat in the shade of some barrels to do the repairs. Cillian went to play xache with Sorley, who now could give him a decent game, although he still lost most of the time. I'd finished with Cillian's tunic, and one of mine, when Turlo came to sit beside me.

  “Lassie,” he said. “I've been putting off this talk, but seeing your man being a diplomat again today reminded me. Will you tell me what happened, in Casil?”

  I bit off a thread. “With the Empress, you mean?”

  “Aye. Was it all an act?”

  “No, if by an act you mean he had no intention of going through with it. You should be asking Cillian this, Turlo, not me.”

  “I should, aye. But I believe I owe you an apology for my part in it, and the two things go together.”

  “Why would you apologize, Turlo?”

  “Because I did not tell you what I saw, and what I feared, with the success of the negotiations hanging on it.”

  “Is not your first duty to the Empire, Turlo, and not to individual soldiers under your command?”

  “Aye. Still, lassie...”

  I relented. “You did warn me, if a little obliquely. I accept the apology, although I think it unnecessary.”

  “Would he truly have married her?”

  “Had Sorley and I not intervened? Yes, had she required it. We reminded him of where his true duty lay, to Callan, and then Sorley convinced the Empress to drop her claim on him. You will have to ask Sorley what he said to her: he did it alone.”

  Turlo raised an eyebrow. “Alone? Sorley? Perhaps I underestimate the young lord.”

  “Perhaps you do,” I said with a smile. “Perhaps we all have, in the past.”

  “And that was all, lassie? Convincing him of his duty to Callan?”

  “No,” I said, on the edge of fond exasperation, “no, Turlo, it was not all, but some things are between myself and Cillian, and not your cohort-leader and adjutant. Are they not?”

  He coloured, slightly. “They are, lassie,” he said. “But your general cares about his cohort-leader. Forgive my prying. I can see that all is well between you.”

  “It is.” I paused. “Now it is my turn to pry, Turlo. Is this hard for you, being with Cillian and me, and now Sorley and Druisius?”

  “Now that latter did surprise me,” Turlo said. “I had thought it a brief thing, but I was wrong. Is it hard? No, lassie. You are all young, or nearly so. I had my years with Arey. I wish I could hope you will have as long.”

  “A thousand men and ten ships,” I reminded him. “Our chances are much better, now.”

  “Possibly,” he said. “If the White Horse still flies above the Eastern Fort, I will believe that. Two more weeks, and we will know.”

  Turlo's question had stirred my own curiosity. The next morning, while Cillian sparred with Turlo, I beckoned Sorley over. We leaned against the side of the ship, letting the breeze dry the sweat from our swordplay. We were in new territory for us now, beyond the mouth of the river we had travelled down to Sylana, moving west on the sea.

  “Sorley,” I began, “what did you say to the Empress? Will you tell me?”

  “Ah,” he replied. “I wondered if either of you would ask. Yes, I'll tell you. But if Cillian asks you, tell him he must come to me directly. Is that fair?”

  “It is.”

  He looked at the water. “I told her a story, about a boy from a remote estate, and a young envoy who came to stay a night or two and was graciously interested in the boy's pursuits. And what that led to, a year or two later.” He gave me a rueful smile. “All that was mine to tell. But then I told her why he turned me away, both to prevent me from being hurt and to keep his own promise to himself. And how long he had kept that promise, and why he had finally let it go. I told her what he had been like before you, and what he would be like without you. I asked if she could live with only the likeness of a man, knowing that below the polished surface was emptiness and despair.” He swallowed. “And a few other things, but I think they were mostly irrelevant.”

  “Oh, Sorley,” I breathed. “What courage that took. Courage and love.”

  “The courage came from the love. For you both, you know.”

  I put my hand on his. “Do you remember,” I said slowly, “telling me that you and I needed each other, to ensure that neither of us were consumed by Cillian's brilliance?”

  “Yes.”

  “There was another truth there. Brilliance is only one side of him.”

  “I know that, now. It cannot be easy for you, Lena.”

  “I have my own darkness, Sorley, because of what Ivor did to me, and for other reasons, and somehow he and I—balance the dark places in each other. I doubt I am easy for him, either. But I have watched how he has let himself admit how much he cares for you, needs you, too, and I am afraid for you. That you will not live the life you might have, that you should, because you will put his needs first.” I was echoing Turlo's words to me, I realized.

  “What life should I be leading, with Sorham sacrificed? I could argue that all you have said is true for you too, but you would never leave him. Why would I, given the choice?” He turned his hand to clasp mine, giving it a squeeze. “I have heard the man I have loved for many years tell me he loves me too. Not in the way I would have chosen, once, but it is enough. I have marvelled at your generosity in finding a way to include me, and I hope you will continue to. I am making this choice freely, Lena.”

  How could I deny him this? “Sorley, you can stay with us forever, as far as I am concerned. And not just because Cillian loves you, and needs you, but because I do too. But will Druisius be content, to be—on the periphery?”

  “Druisius came only in part for me. He wants the adventure, too.”

  “Does that bother you?”

  “No. How can it? I was honest with him from the start. I care for him; we enjoy each other, and the music is a big part of what we share. But Cillian will always come first, Cillian and you, and he knows it.”
>
  The first of the thunderstorms hit late that afternoon. Rufin, experienced in reading sky and winds, had the sail down and the sea-anchor dropped before the worst began. We huddled under whatever cover we could find, the rain lashing us. Around us the other ships rode out the storm, their sea-anchors keeping them from turning broadside to the waves to be swamped and sunk.

  I admired the skill of these ship captains: these were not easy waters to navigate. The winds fluctuated, over the course of the day, as land and sea temperatures changed, often growing stronger towards evening. Rufin kept us well out from shore, away from the dangers of shoals and submerged rocks. We had been lucky on the Marai ship, I realized: further east, and earlier in the summer, the waters had been calmer. The little vessel, designed for rivers and coastal sailing, could not have survived this voyage.

  The storm lasted less than an hour, the skies clearing rapidly. We had all been writing, before the winds had rocked the ship too much to allow us to continue: I in my journal, Cillian working on his translations, and Sorley matching words to a tune. He had taken my danta suggestion seriously, and occasionally asked one of us for a rhyme, or a suggestion of a better word. He would write the story he knew first, he told us, and then ask us to help him with ours. I thought about that, sometimes, what I would include, and what I would leave out.

  The storms became a frequent occurrence: not daily, but frequently enough that Turlo fretted about the delay they caused. Rufin shrugged. He would not risk ships and men by trying to sail, or even row, while the storms raged. Nor should he, Turlo admitted. We grew inured to drenchings, and drying out, bedraggled, in the wind and sun. At least it was warm. I'd had enough experience of cold rain on Dovekie to be grateful for that.

  Even with the delays from bad weather, I thought we made good progress. Rufin had a map, copied from an ancient one in the library, and occasionally he showed us where we were. But he refused to be certain about how much longer we would be at sea. It depended, he told us, on the storms and the wind.

  †††††

  I eased myself out from under Cillian's encircling arm, making my way to the stern as quietly as I could. The moon, closer to new than full, had risen. I stared up at it, knowing its waxing and waning were immutable, its rhythms fixed.

  I had been due to bleed over a week ago. I thought back over the last weeks, the signs that I had ignored, believing them to be easily explicable: the mild nausea, the lethargy, the tightness of my tunics over my tender breasts. Even the light spotting, last month. I was a midwife's daughter. I may have chosen the boats, but I could not escape knowing the signs of pregnancy.

  I must have diluted the anash too much, when I was treating the sick oarsmen. I put my hand low on my belly, thinking, remembering a sunlit room and an afternoon of love. You must have been conceived then, I thought.

  I glanced back to where Cillian slept. My mother's counsel, to so many young women, ran through my mind. Do not send word until the third month has come and gone, she had told them. Too many first pregnancies end, because your body is not quite prepared for what it must do. I would heed her advice and wait until another full moon had waned.

  Suddenly, another memory rose. I promised myself I would not repeat my father's mistake. Its implications disturbed me. Surely, he had meant only that he would not leave a child fatherless, as he had been? But we had spoken only of how to prevent pregnancy, not of its possibility. If I raised the subject now, would it not make him wonder? And what would I do, if he did not want a child?

  In the world I had grown up in, I would have chosen when to bear a child, chosen a man I liked to father it, and brought it up, for seven years or longer, with Maya's help, and that of the village. But that world was gone, and regardless, my bond with Cillian was outside its practices, and perhaps its understanding.

  I glanced at the moon again, calculating. Three weeks to the next full moon, and a week after that, for surety. We should be home, and in the midst of war, most likely. I could be dead, by then. Another reason not to tell Cillian yet.

  In Casil, I remembered, the goddess of the hunt was also the goddess of the moon. I don't believe in you, I told her, but please show me what to do.

  †††††

  Sorley called me to the prow of the ship in mid-morning. “Look,” he said, pointing. “Is that cloud, or are those mountains?”

  I stared westward. Grey-blue humps, blurring into the sky, lined the horizon. I traced them along the land to the sea. “I'm not sure,” I said, “but I think they are mountains.”

  “Rufin?” Sorley called. The captain came over. Sorley repeated his question.

  “Montibera,” Rufin said, and added something more.

  “Mountains,” Sorley confirmed. “He says we will reach them tomorrow, and to be prepared for rough sailing, as we do. Lena, those are the Durrains. We are nearly home.”

  I glanced northward, where the wide plain Cillian and I had crossed lay, and in the foothills of the mountains, the Kurzemë village. I didn't want to think about that, at all. But an uncomfortable thought had been plaguing me for some days. What would I have done, if Ivor had left me pregnant?

  I had teased out the reasons for this over the last few nights. My own unsought pregnancy had turned my mind towards the women of Tirvan and the Empire, who might be carrying children conceived in violence. Might have given birth to such children, I realized. Reflexively, I moved my hand towards my belly. You were conceived in love, little one, I thought. For that, I will be forever grateful.

  “You are preoccupied, käresta,” Cillian had said to me, a few days earlier. “What is it?”

  I had wondered if he would have noticed, either that I had not bled, or that I had not brewed anash against the pain. With privacy, he almost certainly would have: even before we were lovers, he had been aware of my cycle, living together in close proximity as we were. But he hadn't appeared to. Thankfully, the mild nausea had passed, and while I had vomited more than once in rough seas, I was far from alone in that.

  “I am just apprehensive, I suppose,” I had answered, “about what awaits us, at home.”

  “As am I,” he had told me, touching my hand. We were circumspect about affection, sensitive to the different customs of the Casilani, but Sorley's teasing insistence on calling Cillian 'son of the Emperor' had had an unexpected benefit. The Casilani crew treated him with great respect, and me as well, as his quincala. I let my fingers brush his palm.

  The changes I had noticed in the days before we sailed had not disappeared. He was still quick to smile, and to respond in kind to Sorley's banter, but there was a new gravity to him. Like Casyn, I thought, or Colm. We had all changed, though, I mused: Turlo's once irrepressible good nature subdued; Sorley now a man of quiet determination. And I? I had found strength I did not know I had, to fight back against what threatened me, and for what I loved.

  At the stern, Cillian and Turlo finished their swordplay, watched as usual by some of the crew, and Druisius. Like soldiers everywhere, they wagered on the outcome, but now the wagers for and against Cillian were nearly equal. He would never have Casyn's lethal grace with a sword, but he was competent, and occasionally he did make a series of strikes and guards look like the steps of a dance. Had he begun younger, I thought, he might have been very, very good.

  We beckoned them forward, showing them the mountains ahead. Turlo took a deep breath. “In a day, or two at the most, we will know,” he said. “I pray to any god listening that we are in time.”

  Rufin had been right to warn us. The winds blowing down off the mountains roiled the waters and slowed progress to nearly nothing. The sails came down, and the rowers changed shifts every hour. At nightfall, Rufin ordered the sea-anchor dropped, and extra men to the watches, in case of high seas. We slept fitfully, the ship rocking wildly.

  But sometime in the early hours, the wind dropped, and by mid-day we were among the islands where the Durrains met the sea. Rufin took us through them carefully, many eyes looking for dang
er along the passage marked on his map, the rowers keeping to a slow, steady rhythm. Turlo paced, his face set and white. With each westward sweep of the oars, I felt the tension in me building. My eyes did not leave the distant shore.

  Then we were past the last island and there, standing high on a headland above the tidal marshes, stood the Eastern Fort. Turlo's eyes strained to see the flag, snapping in the strong off-shore breeze. A gust caught it, blowing it out parallel to the shore. The White Horse of the Empire shone against its green field.

  Turlo gave a bark of laughter, and then a strangled sob. Tears ran down my cheeks unabated, as I turned to hug him, and then Sorley, and Cillian. Everything we had done had been worth the cost. We were in time.

  Rufin brought the ship as close as he judged safe, and anchored. We had been seen: men ran to the jetties that rose above the tidal creeks, shouting. Oarsmen lowered a small boat, and the four of us were rowed, so slowly, it seemed, to disembark on the quay where the Emperor waited for us.

  Callan's hair was almost entirely grey now, and his face haggard. His eyes moved from Turlo to Sorley, and then to Cillian and me, almost expressionless, a contained hope fighting for release. “General,” he said to Turlo, “report.”

  “Ten ships,” Turlo said, “and a thousand men. Swordsmen and archers, Emperor. Will they suffice?”

  Hope broke free of discipline, a smile beginning on his lined face. “They should,” he said. “They will, the god willing. Welcome home, Turlo.” They embraced, a long, intense hold. Tears pricked my eyes.

  Turlo stood back. “Emperor,” he said, “may I present the Lord Sorley of Linrathe, who joined me in that land, and whose knowledge of the northern lands and the Marai language were invaluable. He was also central to the Linrathan resistance, and his knowledge of that too may serve us well.”

  “Lord Sorley,” Callan said. “You are most welcome, and you have my thanks for the service you have given. Linrathe still fights back, from what I am told.”

  “Emperor,” Sorley replied. “If there is no true Teannasach, my skills and my sword are yours, if you will accept them.”