“Gwenna,” she said. “I have no rank in Linrathe.” She was correct; married Comiádha were rare, and there were no formal titles for their children.
“Perhaps not,” Gedwin said. “But Ésparias is our ally now, and you have rank there. But we will not stand on ceremony, if you so wish. Will you indulge an old man, and let me tell you how much you look like your father?”
In the firelight, her dark hair brushed back off her forehead, and dressed in a simple tunic and breeches, soft indoor boots on her feet, she looked more like Cillian than I had ever seen her do before. For a moment, I simply stared. She met my eyes, and I saw confusion rise in hers.
“You do,” I said quickly. “Or I think you do; Gedwin, you would have known Cillian at fourteen, wouldn't you?”
“I met him once or twice, with the old Comiádh,” he said. “Aye, Gwenna, you could almost be his twin. But come and sit, lassie. There is ale, if you would like.”
“A small cup,” she said. She glanced at me, as if for permission. I nodded. She smiled naturally, and I thought the moment past.
After dinner, I moved again to sit near the fire, this time to tune my ladhar. The family gathered round; a scáeli’s visit was always welcomed, for songs and sometimes dancing, and music was the one love of my life untouched by regret or compromise. Playing was never a hardship.
Gedi brought out his own ladhar: I knew from other visits he was a competent musician, with one winter at the Ti'ach under Dagney’s instruction. He and I played for much of the evening, with breaks for ale to soothe our throats. I sang the dragon danta to his accompaniment, for the children, and after they had fallen asleep in laps or on the floor, we harmonized on familiar tunes.
We finished The Two Sisters. I raised the mug of ale to my lips. “Sorley,” the Konë said. “You played a song once, one of yours, about war and partings. It was very beautiful. Would you play it again?”
Scáeli’en were bound not just to tell the truth, if it was theirs to tell, but also to play or sing the songs requested. I wished Gwenna had fallen asleep, but she sat cross-legged on the floor, enjoying the evening. “I will,” I said. “But this must be the last song. My voice grows tired.” Gedi, beside me, put his ladhar down. I checked my tuning, played the opening notes, and with a silent prayer that Gwenna was sleepy, and not truly listening, I began to sing.
My true love’s eyes are darkly gleaming
In candlelight and music’s lure;
One night alone, at spring’s fair dawning,
To keep me longing through the years,
To leave my soul bereft and mourning.
You danced that night with grace unfettered,
A glance my way, a touch bestowed.
Your dark hair swept by supple fingers.
Too soon the day, the calling road,
The shaken head when asked to linger.
A long, long path, and distance boundless,
Years of sorrow and empty days
Till chance or fate together brought us,
So far from home, in summer’s blaze,
With war behind and war before us.
I risked a glance at Gwenna. She was sitting more upright, and her eyes were wide.
The gods and time have blessed us both
With love’s reward for all our years
Of wandering on lonely ways;
A respite offered for our cares,
A soul to hold ours, all our days.
But candlelight and music’s memory,
Dark eyes gleaming over wine
Revive that youthful love and longing
For graceful fingers touching mine
For kisses left at day’s first dawning.
My life’s companion loves me truly
My heart is his and his is mine,
But older love is not forgotten;
There is, by fate, or god’s design,
A yearning still for paths untrodden.
You danced that night with grace unfettered,
A glance my way, a touch bestowed.
Your dark hair swept by supple fingers.
Uncharted ways might be explored,
Still dreams this wistful, loving singer.
I repeated the last line, not looking at my audience. The final notes faded into the air. In my worry about what Gwenna was thinking, I had forgotten to change the words to the second-last verse: ‘My heart is his and his is mine.’ Usually I substituted ‘hers’, unless I was very sure of my listeners. But if I were lucky, no one would have noticed, or at least thought it odd. After all, I had sung The Two Sisters just a little earlier, and it had similar words.
“Ah,” the Konë said. “As beautiful as I remember. Such a sad song.” All Linrathan songs were sad, Druise maintained. “Bedtime,” she announced, to the women. “Come, Gwenna, I will make sure your bed has been warmed and the fire banked.”
Gwenna stood, as graceful as her father had been. “I have not heard that song before, Sorley,” she said, challenging just a little. She is far too bright, I thought, not to understand I wrote it for Cillian, and to put that together with my reaction when Gedwin said she looked like her father. For the several-hundredth time in my life, I cursed my expressive face.
“I rarely play it early of an evening,” I replied. “You have always gone to bed before, I believe.”
“My parents know it, then?”
“They do.”
Uncertainty crossed her face. But there would be difficult questions, tomorrow.
Chapter 22
14 years earlier
I remained restless, unsettled, as the following days stretched into a week and more. My irritation with Cillian didn’t go away. I’d argued myself back into rationality about the book: he could be reading it for any number of reasons. But I didn’t ask him, about that or anything else, and I didn’t know why, except I hadn’t liked his dismissal of me as an innocent. I was annoyed, and worried, too, by what Lena had told me.
She and I worked together an hour or two most days learning the spoken danta and Linrathan, usually in the late afternoon when Cillian was with Gnaius. I often spent half a day in their rooms, just reading, or playing for Tyrvi and the babies. But I left them to themselves most evenings: Cillian had not asked me to play xache, or music.
“Why are you not eating with us?” Lena asked me one afternoon.
“He’ll only discuss the treaty with me,” I pointed out. “He should be relaxing with Gwenna and you, not thinking about work.”
“He does anyway,” she said bluntly. “And it should be our work. It is yours, for Linrathe, and his, but my name is on that treaty too. And he doesn’t listen, when I do suggest something.” I heard the irritation, the exasperation, and in the line of her jaw I saw anger again behind her controlled words.
What had happened now? “Lena,” I began, but I had no chance to say anything further, stymied by Cillian’s arrival. He did look tired, and more than that, vexed. He leant heavily on his cane, and his smile to me was perfunctory. Nor, I noticed, did he kiss Lena. He dropped into his chair with a sigh that was close to a groan.
“Should I even suggest cannabium?” Lena said.
“Just wine,” he said.
“I’ll get it.” I barely watered his. After the first sip he shook his head.
“More water, Sorley, please. I need a clear head.”
“What is it today?” Lena asked. I returned his wine to him, having added a few drops of water.
“The records I need are at the Eastern Fort, if they exist at all. I must know how land was granted to the women’s villages, if I am to counter the arguments in any effective manner,” he said.
“You really haven’t listened to anything I’ve told you, have you?” Lena said, her voice tight. She stalked out of the room, returning with a book in her hand, putting it down in front of him with some force. “Colm’s history, which you have never read, preferring to study obscure Casilani and Heræcrian texts over the history of your adopted land. The
re is a description, in the third chapter, of how lands were assigned to the villages, to be held in common rather than by individual ownership.”
“Are you sure?” Cillian asked. Gods, I thought, that was foolish.
“Of course I’m sure,” Lena said icily. “I may not be Ti’ach educated, Cillian, but I can read. Colm was impressed by my questions; they showed insight, he said. I remember a time when you said the same, but you seem to have forgotten that.”
“No,” he said wearily. “Lena, it is just — ”
“Just what?” Her voice was high, and every muscle taut. “Cillian, the gods know you have suffered, and you are in pain and overburdened with this treaty you regret. But I have suffered too. For weeks I thought you were going to die, and leave me with a child I hadn’t planned, and nowhere to go. My mother and aunts are dead; my sister and my friends brutalized by the Marai, and now this treaty that I signed — I, Cillian, for the women of my land — is taking away what little they have left, and I am not allowed to do anything to try to counter that. You dismiss my suggestions as if you know what the women here want, when you haven’t bothered to ask any of us.” Fury had not brought her to tears; instead, it was the flame of the furnace or the forge, shaping steel. This was the woman who had killed Fritjof. I held my breath, my eyes going from her to Cillian.
He had put his wine down. A small muscle jumped under his eye; otherwise, his face showed no emotion. He put a hand on the book. “May I?” he asked quietly. She made a brief motion of assent. He began to leaf through it, and then to read.
As quietly as I could I rose to pour another glass of wine. I handed it to Lena. “Should I leave?” I murmured. She shook her head. I wondered where Tyrvi was, with the babies, and if she had heard Lena’s words.
“May I take this to my workroom?” Cillian asked a few minutes later.
“No,” Lena said. “I don’t want it out of my sight. You can read it here, and take notes, and you can ask me questions if you think I might have useful insights. And if you want to show it to the Governor to support your arguments at some point, you will do it with me present. If he wishes to know how the lands were managed, a first-hand knowledge might just be useful.”
“A valid point,” he said. He moved, as if trying to find a more comfortable position. His jaw clenched.
“Gods,” Lena growled, “would you stop being stubborn? Add some cannabium oil to that wine.”
He shook his head. “Willow-bark, nothing more.”
Without a word she went into the bedroom. He glanced up at me, his eyes unreadable. “Lena told me to stay,” I said, “but I will leave if you prefer.”
“Decanius thinks Lena no better than a scrapta,” he said. “He would ridicule her, or worse.”
“The common soldier not a fit wife for the Emperor’s son?” I said. “Did he hear that from Eudekia, do you think?”
“More likely Quintus, his uncle, I would think. Palace gossip, but somehow Decanius also knows we were married only hours before Gwenna was born. He laughs about it. I would not subject Lena to that.”
“Is that a wise choice? Lena is more than capable of proving her own worth, to Decanius or anyone. And if you keep her away, from the talks or from dinners, could not the Governor think you are ashamed of her, confirming what he thinks?”
Faint surprise showed on his face. “I had not considered that.”
“Then maybe you should,” I said, not masking my displeasure. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes, purpled with fatigue.
“There is so much to think about,” he murmured.
“Then ask for more assistance. You won’t let me, as I am Linrathe’s toscaire, but Lena can help.”
“What can I do?” she asked, returning with a cup in her hand. She set it down in front of Cillian. “I made it strong,” she told him. “If it’s too bitter, there is honey.”
“Lena. May I explain?” he said, opening his eyes. I glanced up at her; she was watching him, concern battling with her still-obvious anger.
“No,” she said, but her voice was calm. “Not now. I’m going for a walk, for a little while. When I return, you may tell me your justifications, if your pain has lessened. Sorley, would you stay to ensure Cillian sits quietly for half an hour, and does not attempt to work?”
“With pleasure.” When she had gone, he slumped back in the chair. “Drink your tea,” I said.
“I will. Music would not be unwelcome, mo charaidh.”
I took the ladhar down from the wall where it hung and began to play. Cillian reached for his tea, drank it down, and sat motionless. I didn’t sing, just let my fingers move from one familiar Linrathan tune to another. When I thought he looked a little better, I spoke over the quiet melody. “Could it be,” I asked, “you have forgotten the difference between shield and shelter?”
“A subtle distinction,” he said.
“But a distinction, nonetheless. Lena needs one from you, not the other.”
“Such insight, my lord Sorley. How have you grown so wise?” A sardonic tone, raising my hackles again.
“Lena is my friend, Cillian. Friends talk, and often about the things — or people — that trouble them. Mo duíne gràhadh,” I said, softening my voice, “can’t you see that it is her friend and companion Lena is missing, as well as her lover? If you can’t be the one just now, it is no reason not to be the other.” I wasn’t going to tell him what I feared: that Lena might yet leave him. I couldn’t speak those words. They would destroy him.
He was quiet so long I wondered if he had fallen asleep. “I dislike what conclusions I have drawn from considering your comments,” he said, “but I thank you for them. I would like to ask you a question. Do not feel you must answer, if it is uncomfortable.”
So formal. “Ask.”
“How have you learned to enjoy being only my friend, when it is less than what you truly want?”
“You know how,” I prevaricated, taken aback by the question. “You did, after — after Ivor.”
“Yes. But then Lena was hurt, and not being denied, in the same way. She had no interest.”
“You were sheltering her.”
“Those were her words, exactly. This is not the same.”
“Then — ” I paused, gathering my thoughts. “The truth, Cillian? Druise has made it easier, but only somewhat. I still want you, and sometimes that is more difficult than other times. I’m not sure that will ever change. But the alternative is to not be with you at all, and that is unthinkable now. So I accept the price I pay to be your friend.”
“I doubt I am worth it.” His eyes were closed again.
“That is my decision to make,” I said. “As Lena made hers. We are honouring our choices, as much as you will let us. I don’t blame Lena for feeling excluded, and for being angry about it.”
He picked up the wine he hadn’t finished, taking a mouthful. “Nor do I,” he said. “Shield, not shelter, as you said. An effective turn of phrase, my soon-to-be-scáeli friend, as well as a mistake to be rectified. When Lena returns, will you leave us to ourselves?”
Ale, I thought as I left Lena and Cillian to talk, would suit me just now. I didn’t feel like political conversation: someone at the soldiers’ commons would allow me to be their guest. But at the door, the steward stopped me. “Best not today, Lord Sorley.”
“Why not?” I asked.
He glanced behind him before he stepped out of the building. “Not here. Walk with me to the storerooms.” When we were in the open, and it was clear no one could hear us, he began to speak. “The men are unhappy about the new cohort structures, and the way the Casilani capori treat them, or at least that is what it is today. One or two are being very vocal. They are mentioning Major Cillian, and not in a good light.”
“I see. None of the Casilani are in the commons just now, I would think?”
“No. But there was a fight last night, and several have been banned for a week.”
“They are blaming the Major for bringing the fore
ign troops here?”
“That, and for what the treaty says.” We’d nearly reached the storerooms, and its guards. “Druisius would have told you,” he said under his breath. “He is missed; he keeps the other Casilani in line. Although some accuse him of disloyalty.”
I nodded to the guards. “Bribe them for better ale,” I said with a grin, and kept walking, as if the steward and I had simply met by chance, heading in the same direction. I glanced at the sun. The Princip just might be at the baths. I circled around the fort to the bathhouse.
The attendant confirmed his presence. “Ask if I may join him,” I instructed. He came back quickly, ushering me in. I stripped and washed, and went through to the hot pool.
“What brings you here, Sorley?” Casyn asked, as I settled into the water.
“Something I was told today that I thought you should know,” I said. I told him what the steward had said. “Do they need someone to blame who is not their Princip?”
“Plenty criticized my brother’s policies,” Casyn said. “I appreciate your information. Birel had told me of the fight last night, but not what was behind it. I will ensure proper consequences. They will serve to make the troops aware that we know what is being said.”
Chapter 23
I left Cillian and Lena to themselves for a few days, arguing to myself they needed the time together — assuming they had managed to reach some reconciliation — but also sheepishly acknowledging that my stark words to Cillian: ‘I still want you’, embarrassed me. Although why it should, I wasn’t sure. We all knew it. On the third day, though, hours spent transcribing music in preparation for the autumn examination, and more time spent on bending wood for the ladhar I was making left me with aching shoulders and a stiff neck. I went to the baths, hoping for a long soak and a massage.
I hadn’t expected Cillian to be there. More of the afternoon had gone than I’d judged. But he seemed happy to see me, so I slipped into the hot pool and submerged all but my head, letting the heat of the water work.
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