Empire's Reckoning

by Marian L Thorpe

  “Can the heir be taken to a foreign land?”

  “Will Gwenna ever be Principe? Faolyn isn’t that much older than she is.”

  “Perhaps not,” he agreed. “But nor will she have a life of free choice, I am afraid. No more than I do, now, if ever I had. We are bound, she and I, by what fate has brought to us. Or by what an Empress will allow,” he added wryly. “So while Lena wants Gwenna to be brought up at the Ti’ach, and I too wish for the peace of a scholar’s life, I wonder if it can be.”

  “You’ve said this to Lena?”

  “I have. She is unhappy about it. Casyn insisted on a guard, so now there is always someone with Gwenna, as well as the new nursemaid, which lessens Lena’s fear, and mine, but does not solve the problem fully.”

  Another intrusion into their life. “Perhaps,” I said, “when Druise returns, he could be the primary guard?”

  “I think he might insist,” Cillian said. “Would he trust anyone else to protect his Kitten, do you think?”

  “Not easily,” I said, grinning.

  “He is a good man, Sorley.”

  “I know.” I didn’t want to talk about Druisius. “If we are staying,” I said, “I’ll need to think what a scáeli can do in Ésparias, then. Perhaps as the Princip’s senior advisor, you can convince him that music is a necessary part of the education of officers. I am sure Livius would agree.”

  “Scáeli’en are supposed to wander, gathering songs and teaching our history.”

  “Wander where? I doubt there’s a song left to gather in Linrathe. Here I can learn songs from both Ésparias and the Eastern Empire. Music can create bonds between people: think of how both Linrathe and Varsland agree about the battle between Orri and Neilan, on the Tabha so long ago: a shining river dulled by blood. It’s the only line the songs have in common.”

  A smile flickered and faded. “I ask too much of you.”

  “Never. Do you want to finish the game?”

  “No. Just sit, mo duíne gràhadh, and watch the fire with me for a while. And then I will rouse Apulo, and go to the baths.”

  Chapter 36

  “How absolutely beautiful,” Lena said, running a finger along the curve of the ladhar. I’d finished it that morning, the carnelians set with the help of one of the fort’s metalworkers.

  “I’m pleased,” I admitted. “And the sound is so rich; listen.” I played a few notes, letting them hear its timbre and resonance.

  “Dagney will be proud of you,” Cillian said. A rap at the door stopped anything else he had to say. Lena went to open it. A cadet stood there.

  “A letter for the Lord Sorley,” she said. “I think it’s important. The messenger is exhausted, and his horse worse, so I ran with it here.”

  The seal on the letter was Ruar’s. I read, quickly. Significant news, and by rights the Princip and the Governor should know first. But Cillian would be next to be told in any case. My face, I knew, reflected the gravity of the contents.

  “It is from Ruar,” I said, looking up. “Liam is dead. Ruar has declared himself fully Teannasach, free of a regent, with the agreement of his advisors. His advisors support — ” I stopped. Cillian was not listening. He stared beyond me, at something not in this room at all, I thought.

  “Cillian?” Lena said.

  He blinked, returning to us. His fingers flexed. “May there be no peace for him,” he said, his voice cold, laced with hatred. He turned, going to the window, leaning heavily on his cane.

  Lena moved first. She put a hand on his back. “Tell us.”

  “I cannot.”

  “You can. Do not keep this to yourself, kärestan.”

  “I must.”

  “No,” she said. “Never again, remember? Both of us told you that.”

  He laughed, a dry, bitter sound. “I told you in our first days of exile that you did not know me. What I had been, or done. But in exile, I thought, what did it matter?”

  “Did what matter?” Lena asked.

  She was not Linrathan; she had not sworn the oath that both Cillian and I had. Be careful, he had told me, months before. The oath demands that no man has sway over you. Some — including Liam — may try. So many things began to make a terrible sense.

  “Your toscaire’s oath?” I said, my voice tight. “You broke your oath, and Liam used that against you?”

  “I broke my oath to become Liam’s man, for several years,” Cillian said, with no emotion at all.

  “No,” I said. “You couldn’t have.”

  “I did.” He turned to face me. Lena stood completely still, watching.

  “Why?”

  “Do not ask me that,” he said.

  “Oh, kärestan,” Lena said. Her arms went around him, but his eyes never left mine. “Liam was at Gundarstorp that night? What did he threaten?”

  “Liam was not there. One of Liam’s traders was, there to make deals for fish and fleece.”

  “What has he to do with this?” How could Gundarstorp and a night of music and dance so many years ago matter?

  “He was looking for a way to entrap me, on Liam’s instruction. He would have watched, seen which Härra approached me, waited outside her door that night.” He shook his head slightly. “But it would not have worked, would it? That game is not played unless the rules are understood. Instead, I did something even better, in his eyes. I went to speak to you.”

  One hand had touched mine, on the ladhar; the other had rested, lightly, briefly, on my knee. If that had been seen... “He threatened to tell the world you were channàdarra?” I said. “No. I don’t believe it. Too many women would have said otherwise. No one ever said that of you. You had nothing to fear.”

  “Sorley,” Lena said. “You are right. Cillian did not. But you did.”

  “I did?” There was a hollow in my stomach, echoing and cold. “No. You barely knew me.”

  “What would your lot have been?” Cillian asked. “Disinheritance and shame. You were newly a man; I was ten years adult. The fault was mine.”

  “You could have just denied it.”

  “The tale would have been told, and the damage still done.”

  “No,” I said again. “You were so beautiful. So full of laughter, delighted with hawking and riding and dancing. Delighted by life. And then you weren’t; you were cynical and — and cold, and detached. And it is my fault? I am responsible?”

  “You are not, Somhairle. Not at all.” An unevenness now, in his voice.

  “Breathe,” Lena murmured. “Breathe, Cillian.”

  I swallowed, wiped my eyes, blinked. Saw the pallor of his skin, the damp hair. The ice had spread to my limbs. He had betrayed Linrathe. I didn’t move. Lena growled my name.

  I stared at them, at the trembling man and the fierce, strong woman who held him. “I’m not — I can’t — ” I stammered. I turned toward the door, took two steps, three.

  My ladhar leaned against the wall where I had put it down to open the letter. I picked it up, turned to face them again. He had betrayed Linrathe. For me. “I must ride north tomorrow,” I said. “For my examination.”

  “You must,” Cillian said.

  “But you will come back as soon as you can,” Lena said.

  “I—I should go to Dun Ceànnar.”

  “Would you abandon him now?” No compassion now, just sharp anger. “Remember what I told you: I will never forgive you, if you do.”

  “Lena.” Cillian’s voice was so tired. “Let Sorley go.” His eyes met mine. “Did I not say there would be a reckoning? If it is truth you seek, remember the xache game. Go safely, mo duíne gràhadh. Come home to us if you can.”

  Chapter 37

  15 years after the battle of the Taiva

  “You ran away?” Disbelief coloured Gwenna’s voice. I hadn’t seen her at breakfast — with no one to insist she eat, I guessed she had chosen to forego the meal — but she had found me not long after.

  “Why will my father not talk about what he did as a toscaire?” she had demanded. �
�When Jordis said that, yesterday, I realized it’s true. He never answers my questions about it, either, except with the briefest explanations.”

  Perhaps, I had thought, it was best for this to be told here, where she had some chance of solitude. We didn’t need to leave today. She could avoid me if she wanted to, for a day or two.

  I found a small room where we could talk privately. “Sit down,” I said gently. “Gwenna, I can’t tell you why your father won’t speak of his time as a toscaire without finally telling you why he broke his oath. Are you ready to hear it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want me to find Druise, first, and ask him to join us?”

  “No.”

  The story had taken some time to tell, and I had watched the emotions on her face as I spoke. Anger, just now. Tears glinted in her eyes. “How could you? You said you loved him.”

  “I was angry and frightened, Gwenna. You do understand the enormity of what he had done?”

  “No,” she said, but I thought the answer at least partly defiance. “I don’t.”

  Nor had I, that night, not fully. But I had known, viscerally, that if Cillian had been Liam’s man, Liam’s voice, persuading the nobility of Linrathe and Sorham to the point of view of a man not the Teannasach — although that would have been a betrayal too — then he had violated not just my trust, but a covenant promised to every man and woman north of the Wall, noble or torpari. Isa’s trust and that of Perras, equally.

  Could I explain? Did Gwenna really not understand? She was only fourteen, and not truly Linrathan, regardless of where she had been raised. But I was being unfair. There was another interpretation. Ruar had been fourteen too, when he had learned the truth, and his response had been measured, practical, not my instinctual revulsion. Like Gwenna, he had been brought up to be rational, to think rather than react.

  I took a deep breath. “The Teannasach is leader of his people, but not their overlord, although all but toscairen swear fealty to him. He is advised by the council. You know all this. But a toscaire to the people of Linrathe, or rather, for the people of Linrathe, is separate even from that council. His role is to listen to everyone, whether they live in a hall or a cottage. To ensure their voices, their concerns, are heard by the Teannasach. He is sworn to them, to the people and the land. Not to one man and that man’s priorities.”

  Distance crept into her face. Good. She was thinking, analysing. “Then he chose you,” she said. “Over all the people. You were more important than his oath.”

  “Not me, not really,” I said. I still, after all these years, hadn’t fully accepted that. “Someone he had harmed, not young Sorley of Gundarstorp.” In my mind I heard Druise’s snort of derision.

  “You would have been disowned?”

  “Almost certainly. Gwenna, try not to judge him too quickly. That is what I did, to my shame. A shame I still feel.”

  “So he did it to prevent harm. Not for the Marai, or for money, but to keep you safe.” I tried not to flinch at that, the exact words of her father’s unspoken vow to me.

  “Yes.”

  She stared down at her hands. “Will you tell me one more thing?”

  “If it is mine to tell.”

  “Did he — did Liam’s trader see what he thought he saw?” She wouldn’t look at me.

  “On my part, certainly. You know how hard it is for me to disguise what I am feeling.” Would she accept that?

  “And on Athàir’s?” She did look up then, meeting my eyes in challenge.

  “Yes,” I said.

  The look that crossed her face was not one I understood — satisfaction? triumph? — followed quickly by doubt. “But you said he did not encourage you.”

  “Nor did he,” I said. “Gwenna, music and dancing and night — they can be a potent mix, and sometimes lead us to do things we would not in the light of day. Your father paid a terrible price for one such moment.”

  “But you did too,” she said, “didn’t you? Didn’t it make you feel responsible?”

  “In a way, yes,” I said. She got up from her chair to give me a hug.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For telling me. Could I go out? Maybe for a ride?”

  “Find Druise. He won’t be far away.”

  She hesitated. “Do I have to?”

  “You can’t go out unaccompanied. Ask the door guard for an escort,” I told her, understanding. She nodded.

  When she’d gone, I dropped into the chair. I needed some time alone too. Didn’t it make you feel responsible? The acknowledgement so hard won, the third thing that bound me to Cillian, and him to me. What I could not forget, but only forgive, for love.

  Chapter 38

  14 years earlier

  I reached the Ti’ach in late morning. I was expected, of course, Anndra himself waiting in the courtyard to take my horse. “The others are all here,” he confided in me as he led my gelding away. I inhaled, deeply. My mind still roiled, but I had to calm myself. Whatever lay ahead of me, I had worked towards this day all my life.

  The hall was empty. Isa hurried out from the kitchen to greet me. “They are all in the Lady Dagney’s rooms,” she said in a low voice. “I am to give you a bitty food, and time to tune your ladhar, and then you are to go to them.”

  I thanked her, and pulled open the door to the annex. Shouldering my bags, I walked down the hall, my eyes going to Cillian’s room as I passed. Later. In my bedchamber, I washed my face and hands. Isa brought me tea and oatcakes. I ate a little, and drank the tea, then I picked up my instruments and went to knock on Dagney’s door.

  My throat was too dry. I put both my instruments down, carefully, and faced the three people in front of me. Dagney and Bhradaín, and the unforeseen third. Amlodd. His dark hair held a few traces of silver now. He smiled, a neutral welcome.

  “Sorley,” Dagney said. “Welcome.”

  “I must ask,” Bhradaín said, “before we begin the examination. Did the Teannasach’s messenger find you? He came here first, knowing I was here, and of course the lady Dagney had to be told of Liam’s death, but he thought you might already be here too.”

  “He did,” I said. “Sad news.”

  “But not unexpected,” Bhradaín replied. “Now, to your testing. You will play the set songs, of course, then three of your own composing: one danta, and two others. Then a brief pause, for tea to soothe your throat, then a dozen short songs you have collected. You will tell us a little about each, and at least half must have words to be sung. Do you have any questions?”

  I would play and sing for over two hours. All confusion fell away, replaced by still composure. “One question, but it can wait,” I said. I settled onto the stool to check the tuning on the ladhar. Dagney nodded, and I began.

  The three scáeli’en were listening for precision, not improvisation. But even with the careful attention I gave to expression and phrasing, the traditional danta they had chosen for me to play were easy; I had known them for so long. At the end of the third, the dragon danta, selected, I knew, because it was deceptively simple, I stopped for a cup of water.

  “One short song I would like to play is my music, but not my words,” I said. “Is that acceptable?”

  “The other two are yours?” Dagney said. They would be listening now not just for skill on the instrument, not just my ability to use my voice to stir feeling, but also to how good a poet I was. I had agonized over including this song, for that reason. I vacillated over another, now, but it was too late to substitute something different.

  “They are.”

  “Then, yes.” I nodded my thanks, tightened a couple of strings, and began to sing.

  War in winter sends sorrow soaring...

  Perhaps I could not equal Cillian’s skill as a poet, but the tune had been my first offering to him, and even now I could not hide the love with which I had written it. When I finished, the last notes played, Amlodd spoke. “That is by Halmar,” he said. “Who translated it?”

  “Cillian na Perras,”
Dagney answered, before I could.

  “He has done the original justice,” Amlodd said. “Does the tune fit the Linrathan words too, Sorley?’

  I sang the first few lines in our language, to show him, before I began the second song, the danta about our journeys to Casil and home again to war. It was my danta, so I could deviate from the traditional presentation, and I did. In the last verses, the ones speaking of cost and reckoning, I let the anguish inside me reveal itself. When I was done, blinking at my own hot tears, I began my last composition into the respectful silence of the room.

  My true love’s eyes are darkly gleaming

  In candlelight and music’s lure...

  Only in the second verse did I begin to play the melody. On Dagney’s face, as I glanced up, I saw understanding, and a profound sadness, and my own bewilderment rose again, infusing the last verse.

  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, my voice nearly breaking. I put the ladhar down. Tea was brought, a few words exchanged, but protocol said no comment could be made on my performance.

  My throat eased with herbs and honey, and my composure regained, I switched to the cithar, explaining first its tuning and construction. I played a few Casilani songs, before going back to the ladhar for some Ésparian songs. I had planned the final song, but I did not now trust myself to sing An Dithës Braithréan. I chose instead a song in a language I did not truly know, although I understood what the words I sang meant.

  I played the last notes. I had done well, and I knew it. But well enough? The council needed to confer. “My thanks,” I said, the expected words, “for your indulgence, scáeli'en. You have heard my ladhar; now it is yours to examine.” I handed the instrument to Dagney.