Empire's Reckoning

by Marian L Thorpe

  He took a deep breath, and another. Gods, I thought, why had I raised my voice? He was only six weeks free of the poppy, and after standing so long today he’d be in considerable pain. “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He shook his head, not speaking. I reached out to touch a clenched hand. “The real answer is I don’t know, Cillian. Perhaps a summer apart would make that clearer.”

  He half-smiled. “Not only for you, perhaps.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. His hand relaxed under mine. “But if Druise baulks at leaving someone he loves, he’ll be thinking of Gwenna, not me.”

  That elicited a full smile. “His Kitten. If she were being sent, we could not keep him from going.”

  “No.” I sat back. “But Lena will never let Eudekia have her.”

  “Nor I,” he said. “She is not to be a piece in the Eastern Empire’s games. I would agree to her going only if Lena and I went with her, to counteract the indoctrination. But it should never happen: Faolyn has a younger sister.”

  “But Gwenna is an heir,” I said.

  “In theory, but unlikely to mean anything. I have met Faolyn; he is a bright boy, and thoughtful, and I see no reason he will not be competent to be Princip in time.”

  Except that children died, or I would have never been heir to Gundarstorp, my older brother lost to fever when I was two or three. I thought better of saying so. The day before I’d gone to see Lena and the baby in a free moment. I’d found Lena trying to calm a screaming Gwenna. “Colic,” she’d said, to my question. “Or so Kyreth says. Apparently, she will outgrow it.”

  “Soon, I hope,” I’d replied, the baby’s piercing cries making my ears hurt. “You look tired.”

  “I’m not getting much rest,” she’d admitted.

  Nor was Gwenna’s father, I thought now, looking at the shading of fatigue under his eyes, the skin purple from more than his immediate pain. I wondered if he was taking the valerian that helped him sleep. Probably not.

  “Who is doing your exercises and massage, with Druise away?” I asked.

  “Gnaius. He would be doing the massage in any case; a new technique, working deeper muscles and nerves, he tells me. The exercises take only a little longer.”

  “So you wouldn’t miss Druise.”

  “Not for that reason, but, yes, I would miss him. As would Lena, for his cheerfulness and practicality, and his kindness, and he and I are friends, beyond officer and soldier.”

  An unexpected friendship, and one that confused me a little, this understanding between a Casilani soldier of little learning and Cillian, educated to Linrathe’s highest standards — and beyond, now. I was, to my shame, obscurely jealous of their relationship, disturbed in part by the simple fact that Druise would never tell me what he and Cillian talked about. I had the sense that, in the long days of weaning himself from the poppy, Druise had become a confidant for Cillian in a way neither Lena nor I were. I wish I knew what haunts him, Lena had said to me once of Cillian. I thought Druisius just might know.

  Chapter 6

  The next day Livius had closeted himself with Casyn and his two adjutants, and I, looking at the steady rain outside, had worked all day on my music, although I ate the midday meal with Lena. Late in the afternoon Birel had brought me a note from the Governor, requesting a meeting with Linrathe’s envoy the next morning.

  “And the Major asks if you would join him in the baths,” Birel added.

  Just Cillian? I didn’t ask. The baths were kept for Cillian’s private use late in the afternoon, Gnaius decreeing that the exercises and massage he required should be performed privately, and immediately after a period in the hot pool. Casyn, and sometimes Michan, joined him frequently now, at least in the pool, the only time they could find to privately discuss strategy. “I have been a soldier all my life,” Casyn had told him, in my presence, when Cillian had expressed reluctance. “I have seen scars worse than yours.”

  He was alone. “Casyn and Michan are still with Livius,” he told me. The attendant left us; now I was there, he would stand outside the door, preventing anyone else from entering; it also meant any conversation could not be overheard. I settled into the steaming water. “You are meeting with the Governor tomorrow in your official role,” Cillian said.

  “Yes. What should I know?” I’d guessed this might be the reason he’d asked me to come.

  “I believe he dislikes Decanius; I would like your thoughts on that, afterwards. Otherwise, I would say he is experienced in governance, with very clear ideas of how to — integrate, I think is the right word — this distant land into the Eastern Empire. Perhaps more open to considering its history and traditions than the Procurator, especially as how its laws have evolved from Casil’s.”

  “What does that mean for Linrathe?”

  “The most pressing issue will be tribute, I should think.” He shifted on the ledge, only the tiniest flicker of muscles around his eyes telling of his discomfort. Under the water, he rubbed his left thigh. “The treaty does not lay out the amount to be paid.”

  “Liam plans to offer what was paid to Varsland,” I said slowly, wondering how much I should tell Cillian. “But I wonder how he can. That amount was taxed from both Linrathe and Sorham in a time of prosperity. Now all the cost must be borne by Linrathe, and from estates that have lost not just men and women, but whose flocks and crops were ravaged by the Marai.”

  “I hear the Harr’s son speaking,” Cillian said. He grimaced, stretching his leg, his hand still massaging the muscles.

  “Would it help if I did that?” I asked, touching his thigh with my fingertips.

  He looked at me in what I thought was surprise. “No,” he said after a moment, “no, my lord Sorley. Better leave it to Gnaius, whose hands will give relief without unintended consequences.”

  “I suppose I could do harm,” I said. “But I hate seeing you in pain.”

  “It will ease. You may wish to think about this: Livius spoke today of building a line of forts along the coast, north from Torrey, to protect against any further raids from the sea. To do that, he will need timber, something Linrathe has in quantity.”

  That was indisputable. Along the Durrains, and stretching out into the hills and valleys below them, grew an ancient forest of pine. I — and Turlo — had followed tracks through it when we’d travelled north, tracks made by hunters and trappers. But outside the autumn cull of the forest’s wildlife, few ventured into it.

  “It could be cut in winter,” I said. A thought struck me. “Should you have told me about the forts?”

  He smiled, wryly. “Most likely not. I forget we are envoys for two separate countries who cannot share all we know. If Livius mentions them to you, I would appreciate it if you would let him believe the information is new. If he doesn’t — ” He stopped. “I cannot ask you to not tell Liam.”

  Except he just had, indirectly. To my surprise, he put a hand on my shoulder before leaning over to kiss my temple. “You must do what you believe is right.”

  “If anyone sees you do that, Cillian, they will think we do share more than is appropriate for our positions.” He hadn’t moved his hand. I covered it with my own for a moment; I’d sounded judgemental. “Although some may think that already, given the amount of time I spend with you and Lena.”

  “They may,” Cillian said. “But you are right; there are expectations that must be seen to be met. For your sake as much as mine.” I heard the door open, and Gnaius’s voice calling a greeting. Time for Cillian’s treatment, and for me to leave. I’d offered to play music for him while the manipulations to his leg and back were made, but he’d refused. He would allow neither Lena nor me to witness the treatments, whereas Druise —

  Stop it, I told myself. It is Druise’s job. I climbed out of the pool and went into the antechamber to dry and dress. I was just readying to leave when Cillian called from the massage table in the adjoining space. “Eat with us, Sorley?”

  “Not tonight,” I called back. “I promised music in the senior
commons.” It wasn’t quite a lie; I had promised, but I hadn’t specified this evening. But I would be welcomed; I always was.

  I made my way back to my bedroom late in the evening, my ladhar in hand. Too late: I should have left earlier, to think about what I needed to say to the Governor in the morning. But I wasn’t going to sleep; I was restless, unsettled, frustration I didn’t understand simmering. I missed Druise, both for his cheerful company and in my bed. I didn’t love him — the last few months had told me that — but music and shared pleasure made us good companions.

  Yet Cillian was sending him away, knowing it left me without a bulwark against my feelings. And, I fumed, he’d had the temerity to touch me casually, kiss me, in the baths today. That he was affectionate towards me physically when we were all together was one thing: he was with Druise, too, to a lesser extent. But alone and unclothed?

  I knew, because of his reluctance to marry Lena, that his injuries had left him incapable of physical arousal. A temporary situation, Gnaius hoped, but would not promise. But I had no such limitations — and Cillian had acknowledged that, I realized now, in refusing my offer to massage his aching leg: no unintended consequences. So why ignore it, a few minutes later?

  You are making too much of an unthinking gesture of affection, I told myself. Cillian knew how I felt about him, in an abstract sense, but he didn’t truly understand; didn’t experience the same physical longing brought on by even a brief touch of hand or lips. I picked up my ladhar again. Preparation for Livius could wait.

  Chapter 7

  Some inner sense woke me early; I would be on time for my meeting with the Governor. I’d worked on the song for some time, but I’d gone to sleep discontented with the music and more. But in the clarity of the first minutes after waking, the cause of at least some of the irritation revealed itself: Cillian had lied to me. I forget we are envoys for two separate countries who cannot share all we know. I didn’t believe it. Cillian forgot nothing: Perras had taught him to remember what he read, what he heard, what he saw, preparing him for his role, and a decade as a toscaire had honed that skill to exquisite precision.

  I washed, and shaved again, to be not thought a barbarian. At the appointed time, I presented myself to the Governor of Ésparias in the room assigned to him. He was alone.

  “Lord Sorley,” he said, “of Gundarstorp.” He made a credible attempt at pronouncing the Linrathan word. “Where is that?” A sweep of his hand told me to sit.

  “In the far north of our land,” I told him. “The Marai hold it now.”

  “Ah,” he said. “Part of the lands too difficult to defend. That was the reasoning, was it not?”

  “Yes,” I said, resentment and regret at that decision flattening my voice. Cillian’s decision. My name on the treaty, though. He’d convinced me, he and Turlo. “Yes,” I said again. “Mountains and valleys, a rough and difficult land, and many islands. Too many hiding places, and divided sympathies among the people.”

  “But yours were to your leader,” he said, not quite a question, “the Teannasach.”

  I corrected his pronunciation, and he smiled and tried again.

  “I had spent five years in Linrathe, at a Ti’ach,” I told him. “I had met the Teannasach more than once; conversed with him. I chose — ” I paused. I’d never articulated this to anyone, not even Cillian. “The Marai would have burned the schools, and destroyed the libraries. Songs and stories going back to our beginnings as a people; books relating our history, and that of Casil and Heræcria, too.”

  “You chose learning over land.”

  “In a way.” There was more to it than that, but I doubted I could fully explain. Sorham had always looked north, as well as south, for trade and marriage; even the dialect I had spoken as a child owed much to the language of the Marai, and we shared songs and stories and beliefs. From Perras and Dagney — and Cillian — I had learned of other lands and older stories, and a sense of a greater world. Then I had travelled east, lived in Casil for a few weeks, heard history and stories and songs unknown. Life in Sorham would go on nearly as it always had, under Marai rule. Life in Linrathe would have been forever changed, its tiny, tenuous link to that wider world of thought and history lost.

  “And you are a musician?” Livius’s polite question brought me back to the present.

  “Yes. I play an instrument not so different from your cithar, although the tuning is different.”

  “I would like to hear it,” he said. “Now, Lord Sorley, there are three things related to the treaty to discuss, and one other. I would like to begin with that other, for my own understanding. Who rules in Linrathe?”

  “The Teannasach will be Ruar, son of Donnalch,” I told him. “Donnalch was Teannasach when the Marai began their incursions south: he was killed by their king, Fritjof. Donnalch’s brother Lorcann sided with the Marai, although they killed him too: he was a means to an end, not an ally with any value in Fritjof’s eyes.”

  “How did Ruar survive?”

  “He and his cousin Kebhan were hostages to the truce between Linrathe and this land, and so were south of the Wall when the invasion began. That kept them safe.”

  “And why is Ruar the next Teannasach, and not Kebhan?”

  “Kebhan is dead,” I said. “He followed his father: his loyalty was to the Marai. He — or his men — killed the Emperor Callan, and nearly his son. Kebhan died for that. Had not the leader of the horse archers, Lena, put an arrow in Fritjof’s throat, we would have lost the battle, even with all the Casilani support, I believe.”

  “I see,” Livius said neutrally. “How old is Ruar?”

  “Fourteen,” I said. “His great-uncle Liam is regent for him until he comes of age, and his two older cousins advise him as well.”

  “And when is he of age?” Livius wasn’t taking notes. He was sitting back, relaxed, apparently interested.

  “By our laws, at sixteen: he could marry then, or inherit land in his own right, or be responsible for trade agreements.”

  “He rules absolutely, then?”

  “No. There is a council of nobles who meet twice a year and from which the Teannasach takes guidance. He leads his people, but not arbitrarily. He is expected to listen and take their opinions into account. They will meet with him soon for the first time.”

  “Regardless,” Livius said, “Ruar will have a regent for at least two years, if I understand correctly. I would like to meet him, and his regent. Can you arrange that?”

  “I will request a meeting, certainly,” I said. “But Liam is an old man, Governor. I assume you expect them to travel to you?”

  “Yes. It would be impolitic of me to leave Ésparias, having so recently arrived.” Genially said, but firm.

  “Is this an urgent meeting?”

  “No. If Liam prefers to wait until the warmth of the summer, that will be soon enough. I like to meet the men I deal with, not just their envoys; that is all.” I doubted that, but I wasn’t going to say so. The Governor leaned forward, attentive now. “Shall we discuss the other points now, Lord Sorley?”

  We spoke of tribute. I reiterated what I had said to Cillian: there were little of Linrathe’s usual goods available, after the year of warfare. I did not propose timber. “Some might be paid in labour,” he suggested.

  “Labour? For what, Governor?”

  “I am building forts along the coast,” he said. I hoped I kept my face impassive. “We will begin at the river where the last battle with the Marai was, and then more in both directions, until the coast is adequately defended.” He paused. “What forts I build within Ésparias are mine to determine. But the threat is from the north, so forts along Linrathe’s coast would also be valuable. But I cannot compel those, only ask your Teannasach and his regent if they would consider cooperating in their construction.”

  “And this is where you see our people providing labour, in lieu of tribute?” I asked.

  “In Linrathe, or here in Ésparias. Many hands will be needed.”

 
“Who would garrison the forts in Linrathe, Governor?”

  “Casilani troops, and your own,” he said easily. “Details can be worked out later. But we would supply those forts from the sea, and that leads me to my third request to your Teannasach.”

  The third decides. The phrase from my childhood ran through my mind. “And that is?” I asked.

  “While we must guard against attack and attempted invasion by the Marai,” he said, “at the same time we should encourage trade. Many a peace has been built on the back of an economic relationship. To that end, a trading harbour in Linrathe would be advantageous. The Marai would then not need to sail further south, limiting the information about our fortifications their captains can take back.”

  “The ships that supply the forts would use this harbour to take on goods into their empty holds?” I asked.

  “And do any repairs needed. If there is a suitable natural harbour, even ship-building could be possible. Opportunities for your people and your country, as you must see.”

  A persuasive argument. “Do you wish me to put this to the Teannasach in my own words, Governor? Or would you prefer to write to him?”

  “Your own words, for now, I think. And,” He tapped a finger on the tabletop, “you understand this is for your ears only? The Princip — and his advisors — have no need to hear of this yet. I can trust you with this, Lord Sorley?”

  I returned his gaze as levelly as I could. “Do you have reason to believe you cannot?”

  He didn’t react; he was far too experienced for that. “You must know I ask questions. Your close friendship with both the Major Cillian and his wife is no secret in this fort, and your lover has been his aide and nurse. An unusual situation for an envoy from another country, you cannot deny.”

  “Then,” I said, damping down my irritation, “you may also have been told that the only reason I am Linrathe’s envoy to the Eastern Empire is that I speak Casilani better than any of my countrymen. I am not trained in diplomacy and its intrigues, Governor, but I am loyal to my Teannasach and my country.”