“Are you?” Gwenna was five months old now.
“Training cadets. I wanted to ride patrol, but Casyn said no. But I am looking forward to working again. Although,” she said, “I am horribly soft. I haven’t shot a bow or thrown a secca in almost a year.”
“You’ll need the baths for a while,” I said, “but your muscles won’t have forgotten.” I agreed to come to them, and, accordingly, arrived at their rooms in the early evening. Over roast lamb — the kitchen had improved with the addition of a Casilani cook, I thought — we talked of Gwenna’s latest achievements, and Lena’s studies of the danta and Linrathan. Casual talk among friends. But Cillian’s eyes bore the stain of fatigue, and he was quiet, letting Lena and me carry the conversation.
After the meal Lena went to the nursery to change Gwenna. Cillian sat silently, but his hands were slightly clenched, and he rubbed his fingers together without ceasing.
“You’re not really here, are you?” I said.
“No. I am failing, Sorley.” He shook his head, lips thinned. “Not negotiations now,” he said. “Just planning. We managed to curb Decanius’s excesses, but Livius is no less adamant about the changes that must be made in our laws and the administration of Ésparias. More gracious with it, and he has compromised on some issues, but the result remains the same.”
“Was there ever much chance?” I asked.
“Probably not.” He sighed. “It is the women’s villages that will bear the brunt of it.”
“But he has agreed that the villages own their land, at least,” Lena said, coming back into the room.
“That is true, and he has no argument with their council structure. The governance of local matters should remain in local hands, he said. And, thank the gods,” Cillian added, “Decanius remains in the south.”
“You have done your best,” I said.
“I suppose I have.” Gwenna gurgled from Lena’s arms, and he smiled up at his daughter and held out his arms. She smiled back, and he took her, to her obvious delight, and we spoke no more of politics. But later, when Gwenna had gone to the nursery, and Lena had gone to bed, our talk turned back to his worries.
“That we — Casyn and I — are not given the mensores’ reports to read troubles me,” he said. “All we are given are summaries; with maps showing the proposed new roads, and divisions of lands. It will be Livius’s friends now who control the new land divisions, not Decanius’s, but is that truly an improvement?”
Apulo had started to help Tyrvi with the baby, and with meals and other little chores. I went to visit Lena one day, late in the afternoon when I thought she’d be back from the training grounds. Apulo was picking up Gwenna’s toys from the floor, and singing as he did. Lena put a finger to her lips. I stood still, listening. He hadn’t warmed to me, despite my overtures: I thought he’d been told — or intuited — my nature, and was understandably wary.
Seeing me, he stopped. “Don’t stop,” I said in Casilan. “Your voice is remarkable. Do you play too?”
He shook his head. “Not properly,” he said. “Excuse me, Lord Sorley. I will take these to the nursery.”
“I wish he’d talk to me,” I said to Lena, going to sit beside her. She had a pot of tea in front of her. “Is there enough for me?” I asked.
“You don’t want that,” she said. “It’s anash. I’ll make some mint.”
“Don’t bother.” A tiny smile played on her lips, I noted. “Anash? Is this just for a few days, or..?”
“Both,” she said, the smile blossoming. “Gnaius was right; time was what was needed, that and Apulo’s skill with massage lessening Cillian’s pain. Gwenna will not, perhaps, be an only child now, but I don’t want to be pregnant again, not yet. So I will drink anash every day. At least there is honey to be had here.”
I hugged her. “I am so glad,” I said.
“So am I,” she said. “It has been a long year.”
“Ah well,” I said with a grin, “we weren’t playing xache late at night very often, anyhow.” Or at all.
“I wish you were.” I still had an arm around her shoulders. She nestled a little closer. “I know there are distances between you just now, but...” She bit her lip. “I wish I could tell you what is on his mind, but I can’t. It is a decision he cannot make lightly, and perhaps one he is slightly afraid of, or at least afraid of the consequences that might ensue. As am I, a little. But you should know that if he decides the way I think he will, it is with my blessing.”
Oh, gods, I thought, is he contemplating offering to be regent for Faolyn after all, to let Casyn retire? Now? “When did Cillian ever make any decision lightly?” I said, adding, “I don’t expect you to tell me. I will let it be. There are things I can’t say to him, either. But we will not be diplomats forever, or at least I won’t. I have had a letter from Dagney. The date of my scáeli’s exam is set. I can’t be both toscaire and scáeli, so assuming I pass, Dagney will formally request I be relieved of the toscaire’s role. Not immediately, but soon.”
“Assuming you pass?” Lena said. “Of course you will. That’s wonderful, Sorley. Will your ladhar be ready? What will you play?”
We were still talking about music when Cillian came in, looking tired. “Sorley!” he said with evident pleasure. He limped to the sideboard, unpinning his insignia of rank before bending to kiss Lena. “If I sit,” he said to her, “I will not want to get up again.”
“You’re in pain,” she said. “Baths and massage, kärestan.”
He nodded. “Is Gwenna sleeping?”
“Yes. Don’t disturb her, please. I’ll get Apulo.” She started to get up.
“No. Not if — Sorley, will you come to the baths with me? Apulo can massage me afterwards. Will you send him to me later, käresta?”
“Yes, I’ll come,” I said. “I have news.” We hadn’t shared the baths privately since I had told him not to touch me, months before. The afternoon I had found Evan on the beach. The distances were not all his doing, I reminded myself, and perhaps I hadn’t done enough to bridge them, either.
He was as delighted as Lena had been, asking questions about the process and what songs were required, and which I could choose. “I would like to sing War in Winter,” I told him. “If I may?”
“In translation? Certainly. But are you not judged on your ability to write poetry too? Shouldn’t you be singing your own words?”
“I will be. The danta, and,” I hesitated, “one other, at least.”
“Come and sing them for us tonight. It has been too long since we have made time for music, mo charaidh gràhadh. Work should not keep us apart.”
“It hasn’t been just work,” I said. “I will.”
“A long time since I have sung for you without Druise,” I commented, tightening a string after finishing the danta. Apulo, who had been sitting quietly, invited to listen by Lena, got up to bring me wine; after such a long song, he knew my throat would need it. “He has some interesting harmonies to add, and some counterpoint, in Casilani tuning, at the appropriate points.”
“You’ve lost me,” Lena said. “I understand harmony, and grace notes — Cillian explained those to me, once — but counterpoint?”
“Easier to show you,” I said. “Apulo, will you sing with me?”
He hesitated, glancing at Cillian, who nodded. I explained what I wanted, in Casilani. He asked a question or two, a slight smile beginning. I played a few notes and sang part of the danta again. Apulo joined in with a different but complementary tune.
“Oh,” Lena said. “How lovely. It deepens the music, doesn’t it?” She smiled at Apulo. “Gratiás. Thank you, Apulo.”
“You said that song, and another?” Cillian asked.
“Yes.” I’d had a growing certainty that I should do this, although not one I could explain. I was glad of Apulo’s presence: he would not understand the words, but this would be easier with someone else listening. “I wrote this in the winter. I shouldn’t sing it publicly before you hear it. I wouldn’t sin
g it for the exam, except that it may be the best song I’ve ever written. But I’ll need your permission, as you will understand once I play it.” I played the first run of notes, and began to sing.
My true love’s eyes are darkly gleaming
In candlelight and music’s lure....
I looked up, once. Lena was watching Cillian, a shadow of a smile on her face. His eyes were on me, and the look in them almost made me stop singing. Regret, and something I couldn’t fathom. I held his gaze for a line or two of the next verse.
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.
He glanced down at Lena. She met his eyes with nothing but love. I looked away.
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...
Still dreams this wistful, loving singer.
Silence. I put the ladhar down. “You see why I have to ask. Dagney will understand. The others won’t.” Cillian said nothing.
“It is beautiful,” Lena said. “If I have a say here, then my vote is that you sing it.”
“And mine,” Cillian said. “It is beautiful. More than beautiful. You have outdone me as a poet, mo duíne gràhadh. Use it to gain your entrance to the scáeli’en with my blessing.”
“Thank you.” It felt inadequate, but I could find no other words. Lena sat up.
“I’m going to bed,” she said. “Are you playing xache?”
“Sorley?” Cillian asked.
“No. I’m tired. Soon, but not tonight.” For some inchoate reason I did not want to be alone with Cillian just now. I had never, even earlier this summer, been so honest about my feelings. I couldn’t quite identify what I felt: embarrassment again? Regret that I had sung the song? As I walked the dark corridors back to my room, the un-nameable feeling coalesced into frustration; frustration and jealousy, and, when I recognized it for what it was, anger at myself.
Chapter 27
15 years after the battle of the Taiva
We left shortly after breakfast, the day cloudy and cool, but not yet raining. We could reach Dun Ceànnar today, if we didn't dally; if not, there was a torp a couple of hours south that would provide us with bed and board, although then I would need to sing again. The land was rising now in a series of long, low hills, carpeted with heather, resounding with birdsong on this spring morning.
Other than commenting on the day and the surroundings, I didn't talk. Nor did Gwenna. The track was wide enough for us to ride side by side, but Gwenna lagged just a little behind, her mare’s head at my gelding’s flank.
Mid-morning, we stopped to water the horses and relieve ourselves. Gwenna returned from around a small rise. I held both horses' reins, waiting. “You taught us,” she began, “that new songs use words and images from older ones, to make them part of a tradition.”
“They can.”
“And you do that?”
“Sometimes.” How many Linrathan songs began, ‘My true love’s eyes’? Countless, probably, if I included every minor variation in my tally.
“How did you meet my father?” she asked abruptly.
“In his role as toscaire. He was visiting Gundarstorp. I was sixteen.”
“Oh.” She took her mare’s reins from me.
“He gave me and my brother a xache lesson,” I told her, as I mounted, “and the next day we went hawking, he and my father and the two of us. Most of the rest of the time he spent with my father, talking.”
“About what?”
“Varsland and the tribute we paid them, and possible ways to reduce it,” I said.
She made a face. “It doesn't sound very interesting.”
I laughed. “It is what toscairen do, Gwenna. It is very likely what you will do, or something very similar.”
“I hope not,” she said. We rode on. I let myself remember, no pain in the memory now after so long. Cillian’s fingers, so light on my hand and knee, the look on his face. I had loved him from that evening, loved the grace of him, the intelligence, the unattainable beauty, and that love had survived his rejection at the Ti'ach, and years of barely seeing him; it had survived his love for Lena, and the darkness that was the other side of his brilliance. I had believed, briefly, it had changed into a brotherly love, that of close and dear friends, but I had been wrong. Or perhaps that might have happened, had not fear of his death forced me to face what I truly felt.
The clouds parted occasionally, the day warming. We shed cloaks, and swatted at midges near the streams and bogs. At midday, I halted on a hilltop where a breeze would ensure no biting insects, and I had a clear view of the track behind us.
I handed Gwenna the waterskin, and a chunk of cheese, along with bread the Konë had insisted we take this morning. I remained standing, arching my back against the hours in the saddle. My side ached where the ribs had been cracked, years ago. “You're getting old,” Gwenna teased.
“I am,” I agreed. “Thirty-nine, now. My back hurts, and my knees, and there will be no baths to soak in to relieve the aches.”
“Or Apulo to massage you?”
“He only does that for your father,” I said. “Even if he offered, I wouldn’t make him uncomfortable by accepting.”
“Why would it make him uncomfortable?” She sat on a rock, taking a bite of the bread.
“You know his story, Gwenna. You can deduce why.”
She chewed the tough barley crust, thinking. “Is he afraid you might hurt him, the way he was in Casil, because you love men?”
“That is it exactly.”
“But you wouldn't.”
“Of course not. And he knows that now, so I probably could accept a massage. But Druise gives an adequate one, so why would I bother Apulo?”
“Would Apulo have worked for my father, if he loved men?”
“Your father doesn’t love men,” I said, “so it is not a question with an answer.” I glanced down the track. “Look!” I said. “That’s Druise.”
Gwenna stood up, and we watched as Druise galloped along the track and up to where we waited. He slid out of the saddle. “Kitten,” he said, “will you walk my horse, and find it water?”
“Amané,” he said, when she had led the horse away. “I was as quick as I could be.”
“When did you leave the Ti'ach?”
“Dawn. But this new horse is strong and fast.” Lena had bought the gelding on her last trip to Han, a journey she made — alone — once or twice a year. The guard needed better horses than the torp’s ponies, and it gave her some time under the wide skies and space of the grasslands.
“You could have ridden a little slower,” I said, shaking my head at his foolishness. “Met us at Dun Ceànnar.”
“My job is to guard Gwenna,” he said, seriously.
“In Sorham, amané, not Linrathe,” I said. He shrugged, as I knew he would, and I laughed. I wanted to hug him, but somewhere there could be a shepherd watching us. I settled for a hand on his shoulder, briefly.
“Vidar?” I asked, giving him the waterskin.
“Cillian appeared unconcerned by his arrival,” Druise said, wiping his mouth. “Less than unconcerned. As if Vidar was expected, yes?”
“Perhaps,” I said. We exchanged glances. “Perhaps that is why he agreed so easily to Gwenna accompanying us, so that both you and me would be gone for the summer?”
After Druise had eaten, telling us as he did of Lena’s exasperation and Colm’s delight when the puppy had arrived, we moved on. I’d travelled only rarely with Druise, and except for his desperate ride to find me after the Taiva, he’d never been this far north. What little time we had spent on the road together had been south into Ésparias.
“You look happy,” Gwenna said.
“I am,” I said. “I’ve always wanted Druise to see where I grew up, and now he can.”
“Like Mathàir making sure I went to Tirvan,” she said, “to see her village.”
“Yes,” I agreed.
“Why doesn’t your son inherit Gundarstorp?” she asked.
“Because he is acknowledged, but not legitimate,” I said. “You know the rules.”
“You could have married his mother.”
“I could not have,” I said. Entirely true. I picked my words carefully. “Some men find pleasure freely with both men and women. But I am not one of them.” I could, I knew now, find some pleasure with a woman, if I must. But learning that had made me only more certain of where my desires truly lay. “His mother is happy with her husband.”
“And you are happy too? The two of you?”
“Do you think, Kitten, I would have stayed in this cold and wet country for all these years, were I not?” Druise said. “But you are asking if Sorley and I together are happy, yes? We are.”
“What about my parents? I want Sorley to answer that,” she said, as Druise began to speak.
“Gwenna, do you need to ask? You have seen them together in private,” I said.
“An hour a day. Anyone can pretend, for an hour,” she replied.
“The pretence is when they are in public, when your father is the Comiádh and your mother the Lady of the Ti’ach. That is the act, just as it is for Druise and me. We are very good at it, all of us.”
“You have not answered,” she said.
“In all my years and travels, Gwenna, I have met no one whose commitment to each other, or whose love, runs as deep.”
“Nor I, Kitten,” Druise added. “Do you not see how your father looks at your mother, or hear what is in his voice when he calls her käresta?”
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