His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1)

by Amanda McCrina

  But he always tried to push those sorts of thoughts away, to remind himself this governorship was his duty. Tore was right about that part of it, at least. It would be defeat to let the governorship pass from his hands, from the hands of the Risti. That was what the Marri wanted, after all. That was the real reason his father and his brother had died.

  He got up from the desk and went to stand at the window of the study. He stood there with the clenched fingers of his right hand pressed to his chin, his left arm tight against his ribs. He could see the little walled field for the saddle-horses from this window. It sloped away from the stable on the eastward side of the villa, down to the vineyard at the bottom of the hill. Challe had her roan mare out on the hill. She rode easily, skillfully, and he found himself just watching her after a while, enjoying her joy, thankful to let it distract him. She’d always loved to ride. It was, he thought, a part of himself in her.

  Chæla came in to stand with him, sliding her left arm lightly about his waist, resting her head in the hollow under his chin. He put his right arm across her shoulders in response and they stood together in silence a while.

  “Rovero told me you’d had word from Choiro,” Chæla said, at length.

  “From Rano, yes.”

  “And—”

  “He’s broken off the betrothal.”

  Chæla didn’t say anything else right away. She was taking the time to prepare her words carefully; he could tell it from the tension in her shoulders.

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said, finally. “I’ve been thinking that I’ll go to Choiro for the winter, and that I’ll take Challe with me.”

  He shook his head almost at once. “Challe doesn’t need to go to Choiro.”

  “She’s nearly fifteen. Plenty of girls are already married at her age, and she hasn’t even been introduced in the capital. She’s never known anything except this life in the provinces.”

  “There’s no need to be thinking of her marriage yet. And she enjoys this life well enough. She’ll be a fine horsewoman, and she’s skilled with a bow as Tyren was at her age. She’s doing well enough here.”

  “I wasn’t so much older when you married me, if you remember,” Chæla said.

  “We were both young and foolish then,” said Torien.

  Chæla laughed. “Are you so reluctant to see her wed because it’ll make you realize your own age, old soldier?”

  “I don’t want her in Choiro,” said Torien. He couldn’t make a jest of it. He felt nothing but a tightness inside him, thinking of Choiro—tightness, and a fierce, harsh anger, thinking of Challe in that place. He lifted his arm from Chæla’s shoulders and turned away from the window and crossed the room to sit down again at the desk.

  Chæla came to the desk too, standing to face him with her hands resting on the back of the cross-legged chair before it.

  “This is no life for her, Torien—growing up with slave-children for companions, a stable and an archery range for amusements. You had no sisters, your mother died young. You know nothing about what she needs, what a girl her age needs. It was well enough for you to lead the soldier’s life. But you know nothing else. She deserves more than this, deserves better.”

  “I can’t imagine Choiro will offer her better than that she has here,” said Torien.

  “Let us talk of practicality, then,” said Chæla. “Tyren has destroyed himself, destroyed the Rano alliance. You have to think of that, Torien. You have to think of seeking out new allies now—strong allies.”

  “You’ve been listening to Tore, I take it.”

  “I’m speaking out of my own concern. You were very nearly killed, Torien. Your enemies are growing bolder.”

  “I was aware of that.”

  “Heal this thing with the Marri, Torien, rather than let it fester. Make a union with them before it’s too late. Their Luchian is Tyren’s age. They’ll want him wedded before long.”

  The fingers of a cold hand closed tightly round his heart. “And is that out of your own concern, Chæla? Or is it Tore’s concern?”

  “Does it matter? It’s a reasonable plan.”

  “My daughter won’t be wed to a Marro while I live. I won’t spit on my father’s grave like that.”

  “Your father’s grave,” said Chæla. She laughed again, low and harsh. “You still speak of that, as if you mean him honor, when you’ve made his name a laughingstock. You’ve let one child go to ruin already. I won’t let Challe go that same way.”

  The old anger slipped its bonds inside him all at once.

  “You think because I was a soldier I know nothing of how to raise a daughter? What about you? Do you know better? When I married you you’d slept with every man in Choiro who’d some rank and money to his name. Is that the kind of life you want for her?”

  He heard her sharp intake of breath, saw her shoulders go rigid, her fingers go white-knuckled on the back of the chair, her nails dig deeply into the wood. The words sickened him even as he said them, left a bitter taste on his tongue, an aching black emptiness in his gut. The echoes beat at his ears like a smith’s hammer on iron. But the anger inside him didn’t relent.

  “As for Rano—I’d sooner face my enemies alone than see Tyren wed to that whore.”

  There was silence between them, deep and dark and cold as the lake in winter. Chæla didn’t move, her hands still tight upon the chair-back, her mouth open a little, her white teeth bared.

  Torien said, at length, in a quieter voice, “Challe stays here.”

  Chæla turned away abruptly. But she paused in the doorway, one hand gripping the jamb as if to brace herself, and she looked back to him.

  “Tore is right,” she said. “You’ve destroyed this family. You, not the Marri—you alone.”

  IX

  Over the next few days Tyren sent more patrols into the Outland. The reports they brought back were always the same now: everything quiet, no sign of the rebels. He knew it would be like that. It would be like that until Mægo went back and gathered together his survivors from their hiding-places in the hills. They’d rally behind him, because he was the son of Rylan Sarre, and then it would go on like it had before, like it always had. For now they were biding their time, licking their wounds. He knew that. But he sent out the patrols anyway. Verio and the men couldn’t know about Mægo.

  There was tight, cold determination in him at the thought of what he was doing, the thought that Mægo Sarre would live, that this war would go on and on and it would be his own doing. Foolish to think there’d be no consequences for it, of course. There’d be consequences, he knew that. Even more foolish, then, knowing there’d be consequences and acting as if that didn’t matter, doing it anyway. But he’d no choice. He’d given Muryn his word, for one thing. If nothing else it was that—and that should have been enough, in truth. But it wasn’t just that. It was what had happened in Choiro, and it was the Risto name, and it was honor, and Muryn’s damn-fool hope for peace, and all the things they pretended the Empire meant, all the things that didn’t seem to matter anymore. It was naïve idealism fit only for the parade-grounds back at Vione, as Verio saw it—no use for it out here in the wild. Well, maybe to Verio it wouldn’t have mattered Mægo was wounded, incapable of defending himself. Maybe to Luchian Marro and all the rest of his kind it wouldn’t have mattered. Maybe they could do their duty blindly. But he couldn’t, not anymore, not since Choiro. Foolishness, letting Mægo live, but he’d no other choice.

  * * *

  A letter came for him with the post from Rien later that same week. It came from Vessy, from Torien; the great wolf seal of the Risti was stamped in the scarlet sealing wax. He took it into his office and broke it open and read it. One terse line in his father’s strong hand—Torien had never found much use for eloquence.

  Rano has seen fit to break off the betrothal.

  He held the papyrus in his right hand and stared at the words. He hadn’t expected this. He’d expected Chæso Rano to be displeased, of course—to rage a little abo
ut Risto’s fool of a son, demand he be transferred out of Souvin before the wedding. But not this. Surely it was more shameful for the Rani to go back on sworn word than to see the betrothal through.

  He sat there with the papyrus in his hand a long time. He couldn’t pretend he wasn’t relieved, in truth. He hadn’t minded coming here to Souvin, and part of that was because he hadn’t wanted to marry Michane, to resign himself to that life—not yet, at least. He couldn’t pretend that had nothing to do with it. But certainly he hadn’t done this thing to spite his father, to bring shame upon the family. He hadn’t done it for mere selfishness. No, he’d truly believed coming to Souvin was the right thing, the honorable thing. Easier to have let Torien buy him some other post, of course. But he’d wanted to do the right thing.

  * * *

  He dedicated himself with renewed fervor to the routine of the fort. He spent some time walking round the compound with Verio, inside and out, making note of all the repair work that needed to be done before wintertime, which came early and hard in this mountain country. And he set the men, in details, to work on shoring up the water channel at the western end of the valley, above the fort. It was more that he wanted to keep himself busy than that any of it was particularly urgent. The men were still in good spirits because of the victory in the Outland. He heard their talk, their rumoring—maybe the rebellion had been finally broken, since the patrols had found no other signs. He let them talk. They couldn’t know what he knew. But he kept sending out the patrols. Better, he told Verio, to be prepared in any case.

  He hadn’t had any word from Muryn. Sometimes, in the mornings, when he took Risun or the black colt out on the Rien road, he contemplated going up to the little farm, and each time he decided against it. There was the thought of what Mægo’s people might do, the possibility of reprisals against Muryn and the family—a price for treachery, the girl had said. For Muryn’s own sake it was better he kept away.

  So it came down to a matter of waiting, and it was the hardest kind of waiting: tight-hearted, uncertain. It was easier when he was busy, because at least the busyness filled up the hollow pit in his stomach, pushed the gnawing doubt to the back of his mind.

  * * *

  The waiting ended suddenly, sooner than he’d expected.

  Six days had passed since Torien’s letter had come, and he woke in the night to the smell of smoke drifting in through his open window, the sound of hoarse shouts coming from the yard.

  He got up immediately from the cot, found a tunic and his boots in the darkness, took down his sword from the rack and buckled it hurriedly on his hip while he stumbled to the doorway. He didn’t bother with the cuirass. He could hear someone coming down the corridor at a run, shouting for him. He recognized Verio’s voice. He pulled open the curtain and Verio, coming to an unsteady halt before him, said, “Sir, we’ve been attacked.”

  He went out quickly through the atrium and the vestibule to the portico at the top of the headquarters steps, overlooking the yard, and he just stood on the portico a moment, Verio behind him, to take it in.

  The storehouses along the south-facing wall, adjoining the stable, were all ablaze, flames licking up through the windows and open doorways, gray smoke billowing out thickly from under the eaves. The yard lay blood-red and shimmering in the firelight. He couldn’t see any attackers, but his own men were stumbling out from the barracks now, dazed with sleep, milling in thick-headed confusion, struggling with their helmets and sword-belts. Aino was among them. He jostled his way through and came running up the steps to the portico.

  Tyren said, over his shoulder, “Verio.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “The horses, Lieutenant. Get them out.”

  Verio said “Yes, sir,” and ducked away.

  “Where’s Regaro?” Tyren said to Aino.

  Aino shook his head, once, shortly. “I haven’t seen him, sir.”

  “I want you to have the men start bringing water from the channel, Corporal—see if we can salvage the storehouses, keep it from spreading to the stable.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He went after Aino down the steps and into the yard. The gate was standing open to the fort road and he saw, in a glance, when he’d made his way across the yard, that the great blazing-sun banner had been ripped down, was lying torn and soiled in the gravel. Regaro was under the arch. He was bent forward a little, steadying himself with his right hand on the gate-post. He straightened when he saw Tyren. He was holding his left arm tightly against his stomach and Tyren saw the blood spreading out over the shoulder and sleeve of his tunic, black in the firelight.

  “Commander Risto,” Regaro said, and grimaced.

  “What happened?”

  “The Cesini, sir—the rebels. They—they’d already fired the storehouses by the time I got out here, by the time I could raise an alarm. Gone now, all of them. I’m sorry, sir.”

  “How many Cesini, Corporal?”

  “Four, five. They can’t have wanted anything more than to give us a fright.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Yes, sir, it’s just—it’s just the shoulder, sir. I’ll be all right.”

  “Have the surgeon see to it.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Aino’s men had started bringing up water from the channel now, were running to the storehouses to dash out their pails on the flames, running back across the yard and out through the gate to fill them again. Tyren went up the steps to the gate-house, mounting them two at a time. Two of the guards were there, dead, their bodies slumped against the wall, throats slashed—had died quickly and quietly, without ever unsheathing their own swords. The third was a little way down the wall. He’d fallen forward across the walkway with his sword in his hand—unconscious, his belly laid open by a sword stroke, but alive, his pulse beating faintly. Tyren went back down into the yard, took two of Verio’s men from their work—shouting to make himself heard over the roar of the flames and the screams of smoke-maddened horses and Verio’s own shouted orders—and he had them carry the wounded man down from the wall and over to the infirmary.

  Verio came to him as he was following them down.

  “That’s as many as we can get out, sir,” he said. He was coughing raggedly into his hands from the smoke.

  “How many have we lost?”

  “Three, sir, three horses. But we saved your gray, and the black colt.”

  “Get some rest, Lieutenant,” Tyren said.

  He went on to the infirmary. He ducked into the doorway and stood there a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim yellow lamp-light within. Regaro sat against the near wall, his head back, his eyes closed, his shoulder wrapped up and the arm cradled in a sling. The guardsman lay on his back on the surgeon’s table, still unconscious, and the surgeon was leaning over him, arms stained red up to the elbows, trying to stanch the flow of blood with bandages. He looked up to Tyren and spoke tightly, urgently.

  “Are you able to help, sir?”

  “I can help.”

  “If you can hold the wound, sir, I’ll cauterize it, try to stop the bleeding.”

  He went to the table wordlessly, turning up the sleeves of his tunic. He put his hands against the unconscious man’s belly for pressure, clenching his jaw, not looking at the wound. He looked at the man’s face. His own fault, all of this—his own fault if this man died. He might have prevented it easily enough. He might have dealt with Mægo, as duty required, and prevented this. But this was the choice he’d made, and these were the consequences. He’d known it would be like this.

  Let him live, he thought. Please, God, let him live—let him live, let this war be finished for all of us. Let the Cesini have this place, even, I don’t care. Does it really matter? Does it matter to Berion in Choiro? Some farmers’ huts and wet black earth. I think it’s just pride. I think it’s just the Berioni still remember how they lost this land to Anien Varro four hundred years ago. Stung pride, nothing more. Let the Cesini have the place. Let them have this place, le
t this war be finished.

  But most likely it’ll never be finished. You can run from it, or you can ignore it like they do in Rien and Vessy and Choiro, but it’ll never be finished. It’s gone on too long and it’s part of us now.

  The surgeon was heating his cautery over the fire kindled on the small brick hearth at the far end of the room, and when the round, flattened end of the rod was glowing red-hot he brought it over and applied it quickly to the wound. Tyren didn’t watch. He kept his eyes on the man’s face, his stomach knotting a little at the smell of burning flesh. Then it was done and he took his hands away and looked down at the freshly sealed tissue of the wound. The bleeding had stopped. But the surgeon swore under his breath and dropped the cautery and pressed the fingers of his right hand into the side of the guardsman’s neck, under the jaw, bending down his ear to listen for the heartbeat.

  There was silence a little while.

  “Dead?” Tyren said, at length, though he knew the answer already.

  The surgeon straightened, slowly. He looked up. His voice was flat with exhaustion. “He’d bled too long. I’m sorry, sir.”

  Tyren nodded. He didn’t say anything else. There was a sickness inside him. He pushed it down, turned away from the table. He washed the blood from his hands and went back out into the yard.

  Aino’s men were still working to save the storehouses. It was a useless endeavor. The blaze had eaten its way into the grain stores now, had grown suddenly stronger, and the fierce heat of it was spreading out in oily waves across the yard. There was a ripping sound all at once and Tyren watched, with a kind of numb fascination, while the face of one of the storerooms broke away and fell forward into the yard, the flames leaping out through the opening when it had gone. He saw Aino heading back towards the gate with an empty pail in his hands. He went over to him through the smoke and the hot drifting ash.