There was a sickness roiling inside him. He swallowed, closing his eyes against the unsteadiness. “If I hadn’t forced her to it—” he said.
“It wasn’t your fault, Lord Risto,” said Muryn.
“If I’d known,” he said. He couldn’t get the rest of it out. He leaned forward a little on his elbows, cradling his face in his hands. He wouldn’t have had the heart to fight, if he’d known. He couldn’t have forced himself to it, as he had, in the name of duty. No, he’d have given himself into Mægo’s hands instead, let Mægo do as he wished, because none of that would have mattered—as long as he’d gotten the chance to beg her forgiveness on his knees first. None of the rest of it would have mattered. But he hadn’t known.
Muryn said, quietly, “What good does it do, Lord Risto, to wish it happened differently? That doesn’t make a difference now, doesn’t change it.”
Anger loosed his tongue all at once. The words came spilling out in a rush—everything he’d kept bound up tight and cold and hard inside him since the night the storehouses had burned. No, longer. Everything that had been at war inside him since Choiro seemed to drain out of him in one long, breathless stream of words, leaving him exhausted, broken, empty.
“It makes a difference. It makes a difference, Muryn. Mægo Sarre is dead at my hands, and there was no reason for it. He had the right. It should have been me dead if you wanted justice for these people. Me, not Sarre. That makes a difference, Muryn.”
Only as he finished did he realize he’d shouted it—that he’d stood up from the chair and leaned across the desk towards the priest with his weight on his clenched fists. For a long, horribly silent moment he and Muryn looked at each other. Neither of them moved. Muryn’s face was white and hard, the muscles contorted in a grimace. It was pain, Tyren realized—deep, bitter, twisting pain. That bewildered him. It was like seeing behind a mask. He’d never seen emotion writ so plain on Muryn’s face before.
Muryn closed his eyes and opened them again and Tyren drew back a little, drew himself up, stiffening. He’d forgotten about the knee in that moment of anger and it was protesting, paining him now. But he didn’t sit down. He forced himself to stay on his feet, to meet Muryn’s eyes. He expected Muryn to respond with anger of his own and he braced himself for that. But there was nothing changed in Muryn’s voice. He spoke quietly.
“Do you think I don’t regret it? I, too, Lord Risto. I wish there’d been another way—any other way, so long as Mægo might have lived. I swore to Rylan Sarre as they took him out to die I’d look after them, keep them safe. Myra and Mægo both. I failed him on both counts. I regret that, Lord Risto, more than you can know. But regret accomplishes nothing. It happened as it did and we live with that.”
Tyren said, sharply, “How?”
“Give us justice, Lord Risto. Show the people of Souvin they needn’t rise in arms against the Empire to see justice done. You’ll win their loyalty, I promise you. They’ve had enough of bloodshed.”
“Their loyalty will lie with Magryn now. Mægo accomplished that much.”
“Show his people justice and he’ll have no cause to further this rebellion. You can bring peace to this place, Lord Risto. You were given this command for that reason, I’m sure of it. You didn’t come to Souvin in vain.”
Tyren said nothing to that. He might have argued it further. The bitterness and guilt lodged like a shard of glass behind his heart urged him to argue it further. Better for Souvin, he wanted to say, had his coming been in vain. Better for Souvin had Mægo lived. Better for Souvin had he taken the offer and surrendered the fort and returned to Rien in shame, or else died at Mægo’s hands. But he said nothing. None of that mattered. All that mattered now was that he was alive, and Mægo dead, and there was no changing it, and no use wishing it were changed.
The knee was hurting fiercely now. He sat down slowly, drawing up the chair to the desk again, sucking in his breath through shut teeth as he did it. That movement seemed to jostle him from some daze. There were sounds trickling into his ears all at once: shouted orders and hammer blows and hoof beats from the yard, and footsteps going round the atrium beyond the office door, and the wind rustling the leaves of the laurel tree out in the garden. Ordinary sounds, all of them, reassuring by simple virtue of their ordinariness. They bespoke routine—the promise of busyness, of good, honest work. It was an unexpected solace.
He lifted his chin and looked up to Muryn again. “You know where the Nyri have gone?” he said.
Muryn hesitated. Then he bowed his head. “I know, Lord Risto.”
“Then you can carry a message to them for me. My full pardon, my sworn word they may return in safety to their land.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You can go, Muryn.”
Muryn bowed his head again. “Thank you, Lord Risto.”
“Muryn.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“You’ve my permission to remove Mægo’s body for burial. If any man gives you trouble for it you may direct him to me, do you understand?”
There was silence in the office a moment.
“Thank you, Lord Risto,” Muryn said, quietly.
XIII
The Vessy summer sped on quickly now. Ships came upriver to the lake from Arondy, the southern port, and from the provinces of Sevarre and Remys, on Cesin’s northeastern border, now the spring storms were done. They brought olive oil and wine from Varen, salt and spice and silk cloth from distant Modigne, where the western caravan roads came together. For a while, with the busyness the ships brought, Torien could forget the rest of it—could throw himself into ledger work, because the ships carried the tax records and revenues from all round the province, too, and those needed to be to Choiro before winter set in.
Moien came to him in the study one afternoon. “There’s a messenger come up from the harbor,” he said. “Alluin Senna’s aboard the ship that just made berth.”
Torien looked up. “Alluin’s here?”
“Looking for a night’s accommodation, his man says.”
“The fool,” said Torien. “He knows he’s welcome here.”
But there was the faint gray shadow of doubt lying over him as he waited in the yard for Senna to ride in. Alluin Senna was a legate now, and powerful in the Senate, and it had been nearly ten years since Torien had seen him last. A long time, and longer still since they’d served together at Tasso. The years and the Choiro life could change a man—and did, more often than not.
Senna had brought only a small retinue with him: four spear-men as bodyguards, two slaves to attend the gear and horses. Otherwise he was alone. He dismounted before the steps at the doors of the house and gave his horse’s reins to a stable-boy who came running. Torien stood at the bottom of the steps, Moien alongside him. He and Senna faced each other a long, silent moment. Senna hadn’t changed much in appearance, at least: skin still darkly browned from the Tasso sun, the long, thin scar left by a glancing javelin head still furrowing his brow over the right eye.
Torien spoke, finally. “It’s been too long, Alluin.”
Senna smiled. “Not quite ten years since the last time,” he said. “It might have been less, if you didn’t keep yourself secluded away from Choiro as you do. Not all of us have that luxury.” His eyes went over to Moien. “You’re still with him, Sere?”
“The pay’s better than army pay,” said Moien. “It’s good to see you again, Lord Senna.”
They talked over a jug of wine in the garden room later, he and Senna at the table, Moien in the doorway, leaning easily against the jamb.
“I didn’t know you were going to be in Vessy, Alluin,” Torien said. “I’d have sent a fitting invitation, otherwise—prepared a little better for your coming.”
“I travel this way deliberately,” said Senna. “The Senate has me inspecting the provincial garrisons from time to time. I find it amusing to come to them unexpectedly—see the real truth of the matter before they’ve the chance to hide it away behind dinners and decorum.
I’ve just sailed from Sevarre. I’ll be heading overland to Rien next, Choiro after that. Home, finally. I’ve been wandering the Empire seven months now.”
“You know the Rien commander?”
“Ruso? I know of him. I’ve never met him. We come of different schools, he and you and I.” Senna smiled. “He was busy courting the favor of the Marri while we were still weathering sandstorms at Tasso.”
Torien smiled too, tightly. “I remember,” he said.
“I wish you hadn’t left us, Torien.” Senna’s voice was quiet. “I could use you with me now. Harder and harder to find an honest man in the capital.”
“It wasn’t my choice,” said Torien, and he tried to say it lightly, but it came out thick, harsh.
Senna looked at him. He started to say something. Then he shut his mouth and turned his face away a moment. When he looked back he spoke of something else.
“Your son—your younger son. Tyren. He was at Vione, wasn’t he? He has his commission by now?”
“He has his commission,” said Torien.
“Where’d they pack him off to? I’d like to meet him. I haven’t had the chance yet. They tell me he takes after you. In everything but temper, maybe—not quite so hotheaded.” Senna smiled again.
“He commands the garrison at Souvin,” said Torien.
There was a stretch of silence. Senna was looking at him carefully, as though trying to decide whether or not he’d spoken in jest.
“Souvin?” he said, finally. “In the Outland?”
“Yes.”
Senna leaned slowly back in his chair. “Did he ask for the post?”
“Not in the way you mean,” said Torien.
“What happened?”
“The truth of it? The truth of it is he made Luchian Marro look like a fool.”
“I’d heard there was a Marro at Vione,” said Senna. “He and Tyren butted heads, I take it?”
“There was some quarrel between Marro and a Cesino recruit, and you know how that would have ended. But Tyren defended the Cesino—did it well enough, apparently, that Marro was punished for his part in the thing. This commission was his retaliation.”
Senna shook his head. “The Marri shouldn’t have been able to send Tyren to Souvin,” he said.
Torien spoke sarcastically. “Commissions in the Empire are awarded on the basis of the Empire’s need, not on the basis of a man’s name. You know that, Alluin, surely.”
“The Empire doesn’t need him in Souvin. He’ll only go to waste in Souvin—a backwater garrison like that.” Senna seemed truly angry all at once. His jaw was clenched tight as he spoke. “There’s more need for him in Choiro right now, in truth. My growing fear is that Berion—”
He cut himself off quickly, lifting his head to look round, to look out through the open doorway into the garden.
“Sere,” said Torien to Moien.
“We’re alone,” said Moien, quietly.
Senna said, “Our august emperor has been buying up the direct loyalty of the army, Torien—the regular army now. The Guard were his already, and they’re certainly getting powerful. But there are far too many of the regular army command who answer now to the Emperor, not to the Senate.”
“You think he intends to move against the Senate?” said Torien. He said it evenly, steadily, but he was running the forefinger of his right hand absently along the rim of his wine bowl, and his thoughts were drifting. His father had always commanded a great deal of respect in the Senate, had spoken out against Berion more than once. Never unduly, of course. Never brashly. But he’d done it. Was that the simple truth of it, then? That Berion had wanted a governor in Cesin who’d stand with him against the Senate, and Lucho Marro had shown himself willing to do so, and Tauren Risto had not?
“I think it’s possible,” Senna said. “He has the Marri and their money behind him. He’s always been close with Lucho Marro. You know that well enough, and there are plenty in the Senate who know it. As long as he can keep buying men’s loyalty, and sending those who might oppose him to places like Souvin—it’s possible. Were there none left at Vione willing to countermand Tyren’s commission?”
“Chion Mureno commanded Tyren’s column,” said Torien. “You know Mureno?”
“I know him.”
“I thought he’d be willing to investigate the matter. I wrote him, asked for his help. He refused it me.”
Senna lifted his chin. “So,” he said. “It goes deeper than I thought.”
“They’ve made good use of seven months without you,” said Torien.
Senna made no reply to that. His face was tight with thought, his angular brows drawn sharply down into a scowl.
“When I go to Rien,” he said, at length. He spoke slowly, carefully, as though weighing each word on his tongue. “When I go to Rien, Torien, I’ll see to Tyren’s transfer. I’ll take him with me to Choiro, if you’ll permit it. I fear I’ll have need of him. I’ll have need of men I can trust, men in the army who’ll be willing to stand against Berion, if it comes to that. And, if it should come to that—” he lowered his voice even further. “If it comes to that, Torien—I believe I could get enough of the Senate behind me to name you emperor, put you on the throne in Berion’s place.”
There was silence in the room a while.
Torien said, finally, in a tight voice, “Don’t be a fool, Alluin.”
“I’m not a fool. Think about it. The provincial garrisons will declare for you, if they’re faced with the choice. And you still have popular support in Choiro. You’re still the beloved war hero—and you’ve the Berion blood.”
“As much Cesino blood as Berion blood, if we’re going back that far,” said Torien, dryly.
Senna shook his head again. “Listen to me, Torien. If Berion moves against the Senate, he’ll have to be stopped. If there’s any hope of preserving what little virtue is left in this Empire—he’ll have to be stopped, and with bloodshed if necessary. But it won’t be enough to take him off the throne. There has to be another in his place when it’s done. Otherwise we’ll have twenty years of war on our hands.”
“I come of the Varri, Alluin,” Torien said. “I know what a disputed succession means.”
“I can count on your support, then?”
“Has so much changed between us you need ask?”
A grin split Senna’s dark face, briefly.
“I’ll speak with certain men of the Senate when I return to Choiro,” he said. “I’ll be in contact with you.”
XIV
The next few days all ran together indistinguishably in Tyren’s head: the daylight hours spent overseeing the repairs to the gate and the wall and the storehouses, the evenings spent on paperwork in his lamp-lit office. Sleep came more readily now, at least. For the most part there was satisfaction enough in the work, and in the purpose of the work, to keep the weight of guilt from his mind and heart. Only sometimes, in the silence of the early mornings when he took Risun or the black colt out on the Rien road, did it knot up inside him again, and linger there cold and hard and heavy until he’d gotten back to the fort, and could return his attention to the work, and drive himself to bone-weariness to loosen it.
Reinforcements came up from Rien a week after the battle: a column of twenty-four regulars under two officers, with a string of fresh horses and three carts full of provisions for the replenishing of the storehouses. The commanding officer dismounted before the headquarters steps, swept his cape smartly over one shoulder, unbuckled his crested helmet and held it in the crook of his left arm while he saluted Tyren with his right hand. He was typical Rien officer stock; the cold arrogance of it was in his face. He carried himself stiffly, properly, chin up, lips pressed in a thin, tight line. He spoke in a brisk, clipped voice.
“Commander Risto?” he said.
“Yes,” said Tyren.
“Commander Maurien Rægo—your replacement.”
For a long moment he was too taken aback to say anything, to do anything but stare.
“Replacement?” he repeated, finally, stumbling over the word.
Rægo came up the steps to hand him a sealed letter. He recognized the seal. It belonged to Marchin Ruso, commander of the fort at Rien.
“You’ve been recalled to Rien, Commander,” Rægo said. “I’m to take command of the garrison here.”
He broke the seal and unrolled the papyrus with unsteady hands and read it right there on the steps. To Commander Tyren Berio Risto, the Imperial Garrison at Souvin, it read—You are ordered to report at once to headquarters, the Imperial Garrison at Rien, to receive your new commission.
He rolled the papyrus up again, slowly. He couldn’t find words—just looked up to Rægo dumbly, his mouth dry, his thoughts suddenly scattered, incoherent. Aino, standing behind him, must have sensed his bewilderment, his stupor. He stepped quickly forward and said, “I can assist you with the quartering of your men if you wish, Commander Rægo.”
He let Aino take Rægo off his hands and he escaped to his quarters and sat on the bed a long time, his elbows on his knees, his head cradled in his palms, kneading his forehead with his fingertips, trying to put the shambles of his thoughts back together. Not now. Not now, with the work only just started. At least Rien might let him finish it, now Muryn had given him the clarity to do so—let him redress the earlier failings, the wasted time. Let Rægo have the command when the work was done, that would be all right. Let some incompetent Choiro fool have the command then. (No, not even then, not if there’s to be justice in this place, you know that.) But not now, at least. Not yet. He had to finish it, first. He had to redeem it.
He made himself get up, at length. He set to work packing up his gear, moving numbly, dazedly. He’d nearly finished by the time an orderly came to inform him the evening meal was ready. He went haltingly to the mess and sat down at the head of the table with Aino on his right-hand side and Rægo and Rægo’s adjutant, Daien, on his left. He didn’t pretend politeness. He nodded, occasionally, or spoke brief words when Rægo addressed him. Otherwise he concentrated on his food.
His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) Page 18
