Empire's Reckoning

by Marian L Thorpe

  “Going back to the question of food for the Ti’ach, my brother’s promised fish and wool and mutton,” I said, “and I imagine it will be much the same from Pietar and Karl, whose lands are close. Roghan tells me he will send his sons, too, although Hairle is angry with his father about that. He is sixteen, a man, not a schoolboy, he says.”

  “A sixteen-year old from Gundarstorp?” Cillian said. “Dangerous creatures, they can be, insinuating themselves into a man’s heart.”

  “No more dangerous than a visiting toscaire,” I said.

  He chuckled, lifting his hand out of the water to put an arm around my shoulders. “I am long past being dangerous, at least in that way,” he said. I felt the touch of the silver marriage bracelet on his arm. It had been mine, once, it and the one on Lena’s wrist. I had given them to Cillian on the eve of their wedding.

  “I disagree,” I murmured. Grey streaked his hair, and lines of pain never fully alleviated scored his face, but to me he was as beautiful as he had been the night I had fallen in love, watching him dance to the music I was playing. Twenty-three years ago, that had been. Grace unfettered, I had written later, although he couldn't be described as graceful now. I didn't care. That he was alive and that I was here at the Ti'ach with him was more than enough.

  We sat for some time, not talking, until we heard Apulo clear his throat in the anteroom. With a wry smile, I moved away. Apulo knew everything there was to know about all of us, but his personal history meant we were careful with expressions of affection between men in front of him, regardless of how comfortable he was with us now. I stood in the water, and between Apulo and me we helped Cillian out.

  We wrapped towels around our waists and went to dry and dress. “Will you want another massage later?” Apulo asked quietly, drying Cillian’s back.

  “I think not,” Cillian said. “But the baths again in the early morning, please.”

  Chapter 2

  Dinners at the Ti'ach meant a topic of discussion chosen by one of the adults, or occasionally by the senior students. If Cillian chose, it was frequently a passage from Catilius he offered for the daltai’s thoughts, and tonight was no different. “Catilius wrote: Look back over the past, at the empires that rose and fell, and predict the future. What is he telling us?” he asked. As always, he began with the youngest students, asking supplemental questions if necessary, to elicit an answer.

  “That nothing lasts,” Gwenna said, when it was her turn. “But if this is true, Comiádh, then why do we work so hard to maintain our governments, and the relationships among our lands?”

  “What happens if we do not?” he asked in return.

  “War,” Tamm said. He was the oldest of the students, although not quite old enough to remember coherently. Images, perhaps, and fear. “Anarchy.”

  “Indeed,” Cillian said. “Look around this table, daltai. I, as you know, am Linrathan born, but now a citizen of Ésparias and by extension of the Eastern Empire. The Lady of this house is Ésparian; the lord Sorley was born in Sorham, the Captain in Casil and Apulo from a land even further east. And among you, I count two of Ésparias, five from Linrathe, and two from Sorham. We live together in peace, with common goals. How do we do that?”

  “Because there are rules,” Colm said.

  “Who decides on the rules?” Cillian asked. “Am I free to do what I wish?”

  None of the students spoke. “I don’t believe so,” Tamm said finally. “Even the Comiádh has rules, does he not? Expectations?”

  “Yes,” Cillian said. “I am less bound than Lord Sorley, whose responsibilities as a scáeli are set by his council, but still I am not free to do what I wish, either in how I lead this Ti'ach, or in my public life.”

  “Comiádh?” Tamm said, “I would like to ask something, but I’m not sure if it is appropriate.”

  “Is it on topic?” Cillian enquired.

  “The question came from your last statement.” I smiled to myself. Tamm had been twelve when he came to us, quiet and shy; he was often still quiet, but his confidence now was apparent. He would be an excellent travelling teacher, and, perhaps, a comiádh himself one day. He was a competent musician, too, but he lacked the skill, or interest, to be a scáeli.

  “You said you are not free to do as you might wish, in your public life. But you have two public roles, sir.” He hesitated. “Should I go on?”

  Cillian looked down the table at Lena. He spread his hands. “There is no reason not to,” he said. “One rarely influences the other, but the question is valid.”

  “Which role constrains you more?”

  “Day to day,” Cillian said, “the role of Comiádh governs my life. The other concerns me only occasionally, when the envoys visit, or the Princip. But beyond those times, and my signature on a few letters each year, I am the Comiádh, and so its constraints have a greater influence.”

  “Is that true?” Gwenna asked. A direct rebuttal to the Comiádh — whether he was her father or not — was rare from a student of her age. Only when the head of the Ti’ach had invited a dalta to call him by his name did anyone, traditionally, challenge him.

  “Why is it not, in your eyes?” Cillian replied.

  “You are Comiádh of this Ti’ach through an appointment by the Teannasach. But your other role,” she frowned a little, “comes from the Empress of the Eastern Empire, and Linrathe pays tribute to her. She is therefore the greater power, and the Teannasach the lesser, so Comiádh is the lesser role.”

  “That is one way to measure the value of the roles,” Cillian said. “Is there another?”

  “One title is very new,” Tamm said. “The other has been in existence for generations, and is greatly honoured.”

  “But Comiádh means only that you teach us, and while that is important, isn’t advising the Princip and the Governor of Ésparias more so?” Colm asked.

  “There is no correct answer,” Cillian said. “What we do in our lives, the roles we take on, will be seen differently by different people, because the value a person gives a role or an action is a reflection of what they believe is important. But I will ask you this: would the leaders of Ésparias seek my advice, had I not been educated at this Ti’ach? Would being the last Emperor’s son be sufficient?”

  “Then you value being Comiádh more?” Tamm ventured. “What about you, Lord Sorley? There are parallels between you, aren’t there? If I am not presuming?”

  “Present your argument,” I said.

  “Both you and the Comiádh advise your leaders. You were both heirs to a position you relinquished, although you retain the titles for diplomatic reasons, I believe. Both of you were important toscairen, and both of you chose to give that up to return to this school in Linrathe. Are you happy with your choice too?”

  Lena’s eyes met mine along the table. There was nothing — other than his family — that Cillian valued more than being Perras’s chosen successor at this Ti’ach. My appointment as scáeli here meant both my lifelong dreams had come true, although that was too personal to speak of to the students. But Tamm had asked me a direct question, and I thought there might just be more than one reason for it.

  “I am happy in this life, yes,” I said. “It is an honour to be the scáeli of this house, and I am a scáeli before anything else.” Just as Cillian was the Comiádh, first. But beyond our official positions, beyond the calm and ordered life of the Ti’ach, we had other work, all four of us. Work the daltai knew — and could know — nothing about.

  “Thank you, Lord Sorley,” Tamm said. “May I make one further observation?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We think, as children, that the adults around us are free,” he said. He glanced at all of us, but I thought his eyes lingered on Druise and me. “But you are not. We are not, I must learn to say soon. I appreciate the example you have set me, in my years here.”

  He will still be here when I return, I thought, so I have time. Time to tell him how to conduct himself as a channàdarra man in Linrathe and So
rham. It wouldn’t be the first conversation of this sort I had had over my years at the Ti'ach. I wished someone had done it for me, when I was a student here. Perras had tried, but he could not speak from experience. Perhaps I would have a word before I left, I decided.

  “If we have taught you that, we have taught you much,” Cillian said. “Apulo will supervise tonight, daltai. Tamm, will you assist until first bedtime?”

  “Of course,” Tamm said. Cillian stood, indicating the end of the formal dinner.

  “Gwenna,” he said. “I gave you an assignment. Is it ready for review?”

  “Yes, Comiádh,” she said.

  “Then will you accompany us?” In public, Cillian treated his children exactly as he did the other daltai, with the same grave courtesy and expectation of obedience. In private, he was very different.

  “So, mo nihéan,” he said, as soon as the door to their rooms closed. “You have catalogued your grievances?” I heard the amusement in his voice, and so did Gwenna. She glared at him. Only in her expressions of frustration or anger could I see Lena in her.

  “If you are not going to take me seriously,” she said, “I will ask to leave.”

  “Cillian,” Lena warned. He sobered.

  “I apologize,” he said to Gwenna. “Your complaint of secrecy is valid. We have not told you enough. Sit, leannan, and tell us what you want to know. You may have a little watered wine, if you wish.”

  “Not now,” she said, taking a seat. “Could I wait, and have it later?”

  “You may.” We all sat.

  “This is what I have heard,” Gwenna began, taking a folded piece of paper from a pocket, “and I want to know what is true, and what isn't.” She looked down at the paper. “I’ll just give it to you. There is one other thing, but...” She hesitated. “I didn’t want to write it down, and I don't want to ask you. Or mother.”

  “Then ask Sorley, or Druisius,” Cillian said. He took the list from Gwenna, scanning it quickly. “This is quite a lot, Gwenna. More than we can talk about tonight. Is one thing more important to you than the others?”

  “Yes,” she said, a little defiantly. “You have always told us promises are binding and should not be made unless you will keep them. But you broke your oath to Linrathe to save your life, didn't you?”

  “No,” Cillian said evenly. “I did not, Gwenna. I had resigned as toscaire some years earlier, which freed me of my oath to Linrathe and its people.”

  “Then if not to Linrathe, then to your Teannasach,” she persisted. “Sorley, when you stopped being a toscaire, you swore an oath to Ruar, didn’t you?”

  “I did,” I said.

  “Then you would have too,” she said, turning back to her father, “to Donnalch.” Cillian’s eyes met Lena’s, a long look.

  “At my trial,” he said, “who was Teannasach?”

  “Lorcann,” she said. “Donnalch was dead.”

  “Had I had the opportunity to swear allegiance to him?”

  “I suppose not,” she admitted. “But allegiance to a new Teannasach is assumed until there has been time for the oaths to be made, so it makes no difference.”

  “Your argument is correct,” he said, “but the assumption you have made is not.”

  Just tell her, I thought. Don’t play games. Then I mentally shook my head at my own reaction: this was Gwenna, brought up nearly since she could talk to think about what was hidden by words, about what was not said, as much as what was. Both her father and I used language as tools, but very differently.

  Cillian waited. Gwenna’s frown deepened, her eyes narrowed and distant, thinking. A hand went to her hair, twisting its almost-black strands. She cocked her head. “You were not sworn to Donnalch?”

  “I was not,” he said. “Well done, mo nihéan.”

  “Why not?” Curious, more than confused.

  “He would not accept it. He had no trust in me; had not since we were children together at this Ti’ach,” Cillian said, no emotion in his voice at all. Just a fact, to be related. I glanced at Lena. Her eyes were on Cillian, not Gwenna.

  “Why not?” she asked again, but this time disbelief coloured her voice.

  “Donnalch was twelve when he decided that since my mother had borne me to an Empire’s soldier, she was a traitor to Linrathe. Remember that Linrathe and Ésparias were enemies at that time, Gwenna, so that view would have been widely held, and he would have heard it from his own father, no doubt. His thinking was this: since my mother and I had both been brought up by the same people, if they had raised her to be a traitor, then they must have also raised me to be the same.”

  That conversation had led Perras, then the Comiádh, to tell Cillian he would need to be a man of utmost integrity, and always keep his word. Dagney had explained it to me, many years later. What might have been different, if that accusation, and Perras’s counsel, had never been spoken?

  “But that’s a fallacy,” Gwenna said.

  “Perras explained that to him, but he chose to follow his emotions rather than logic. Even when we were both adults, I never had his full trust.”

  “So you were free to choose Ésparias over Linrathe,” she said.

  “Not entirely free. I could make that choice only because my father was willing to acknowledge me.”

  “Can I tell my classmates this?” Her voice trailed off. “But it won’t help.”

  “Kitten,” Druise said, “tell us what they are saying.”

  “All sorts of things,” she said, “and sometimes they contradict each other. But — ” She straightened her shoulders a little. “I tried not to be upset. I’m sorry I was earlier today, Athàir. I analysed what they were saying, as you taught me, and as I have learned to do too at the White Fort.”

  “And your conclusion?” Cillian asked.

  “They think the same as Donnalch, that you cannot be trusted. Mathàir?” She turned to Lena, and I thought she looked about ten again for a moment. “Has he ever broken a promise to you?”

  “Once,” Lena said. Gwenna went very still, her eyes wide. “In Casil, trying to ensure my safety, and that of all of us, by attempting to convince the Empress to support the war against the Marai. He had promised to be constant, and he wasn’t. I forgave him, under the circumstances,” she added, with a smile.

  “And that is the only time?” Apprehension quivered in her voice.

  “Yes,” Lena replied. “Haven’t I just said so?”

  “Mo nihéan gràhadh, will you listen for a moment?” Cillian asked. “You have heard my loyalty questioned, and especially my reasons for accepting my father’s acknowledgment of me. Those questions come from those who only know part of the truth. That both Casyn and Ruar, who know it all, continue to trust me should tell you more, but you must never accept such trust blindly.”

  “Then you haven’t told me all the truth?” Gwenna asked immediately. I swore silently.

  “It is not entirely my story to tell, Gwenna,” her father answered. I watched her, seeing the confusion, mistrust battling against love. Oh, Gwenna, I thought. I know almost exactly how you feel.

  “Shall we have wine now?” I asked.

  “A good idea,” Druise said. “Kitten, you will share a cup with us, and then you will let us talk, the four of us, yes?”

  “All right,” she said.

  “Gwenna, we have a ritual with wine, of an evening,” Cillian said. “Sorley began it, many years ago. Do not drink when you are given your wine, until the toast is made.” He pushed himself up and went to the sideboard. I joined him. He poured five cups of wine, watering two — his and Gwenna’s — extensively, the others less so. He handed one to me. I gave it to Lena, the first cup of the night always hers, my acknowledgment of the primacy of her bond with Cillian. Then Druise’s. Gwenna was next. My own I took from Cillian’s hand, feeling even in his daughter’s presence the light brush of his fingers.

  Cillian raised his cup. “Seek the truth, by which no one was ever truly harmed.” Catilius, of course. I wasn’t sure
I agreed.

  Chapter 3

  When Gwenna had left us, Lena uttered a deep sigh and sank into a chair. “I am not looking forward to this summer,” she said. “She is going to be confused and angry, and so pleasant to live with. Wasn’t it enough to explain that you were not sworn to Donnalch, Cillian? Why did you have to imply there was more to it?”

  “Because there was, käresta.”

  “I know that. Does she need to?”

  “I believe so.” Lena didn’t reply. She wasn’t angry, I knew, just considering the situation.

  “Do you truly believe Donnalch never came to trust you?” I asked Cillian. “Not even in his last days at Fritjof’s hall?”

  Cillian sipped his wine. “At the very end, when he knew he would be killed, I think so,” he replied. “What choice had he? But I have wondered, over the years, his reasons for taking me with him.”

  “To observe, and listen, and remember,” Lena said. “That is what I recall him saying.”

  “And would he not also be observing and listening to see how Fritjof and his men acted towards me?” Cillian ran a hand through his hair. “What had Liam told him?”

  “Kitten needs to hear the truth,” Druise said bluntly. “What you did, Cillian, and why.”

  “She’s too young,” I said.

  “She is young,” Lena said. “But better she hears it from us than have her mind filled with rumours and half-truths at the cadet school.”

  “All of it?” I asked. “Even — ?”

  “A certain question will follow, I think,” Cillian said. “I see no other reason for her asking if I had broken a promise to you, käresta.”

  “Maybe she does need to hear the truth,” I said. An idea had appeared, swirled, coalesced. I wasn’t sure I liked it, but it made sense. “Or most of it. But not as a lesson, Cillian, the bare facts. Not like you told me.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Lena asked.