Empire's Heir: Empire's Legacy, #7

By Marian L Thorpe

Finalist: 2022 Eric Hoffer Award; 2022/23 IndieInk Awards: Bisexual Representation

 

Some games are played for mortal stakes.

 

Gwenna, heir to Ésparias, is summoned by the Empress of Casil to compete for the hand of her son. Offered power and influence far beyond what her own small land can give her, Gwenna's strategy seems clear – except she loves someone else.

Nineteen years earlier, the Empress outplayed Cillian in diplomacy and intrigue. Alone, his only living daughter has little chance to counter the Empress's experience and skill. Aging and torn by grief and worry, Cillian insists on accompanying Gwenna to Casil.

Risking a charge of treason, faced with a choice he does not want to make, Cillian must convince Gwenna her future is more important than his – while Gwenna plans her moves to keep her father safe. Both are playing a dangerous game. Which one will concede – or sacrifice?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arboretum Press
• Release date: Aug 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781777178376

Book preview

A tree with no leaves Description automatically generated

EMPIRE’S HEIR

Copyright © 2021

Marian L Thorpe

Arboretum Press

Guelph, ON, Canada

www.arboretumpress.com

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author, except for brief excerpts used in reviews.

ISBN (print): 978-1-7771783-8-3

ISBN (e-book): 978-1-7771783-7-6

Cover Design by Anthony O’Brien

www.bookcoverdesign.store

Epigraphs

Part I: from The City, by C.P. Cavafy. Translation © 1975, 1992 by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Princeton University Press

Part II:  The Ides of March by C.P Cavafy. Translation © 2006 by Aliki Barnstone. W. W. Norton

Part III: from The God Abandons Antony, by C.P. Cavafy. Translation © 1975, 1992 by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard. Princeton University Press

All used under Fair Use Policy.

In memory of my father

Harry Joseph Thorpe

1916-2015

The Story So Far

TO LEARN WHAT HAPPENED in the previous books in this series (or have your memory jogged), please go to

http://bit.ly/LegacyMainEvents

The password for this site is:  TheStorySoFar

The Characters of Empire’s Heir

CHARACTERS IN ITALICS are deceased.

Peritas, Colm’s dog, has the same name as Alexander the Great’s dog

Family trees for main and some supporting characters can be found at

http://bit.ly/AppendicesLegacy

The Vocabulary of Empire’s Heir

THE LANGUAGES SPOKEN in Empire's Heir are my inventions, but they are based on existing or historic languages. Pronunciations and grammar may not follow the conventions of those languages. Roughly, Casilan is based on Latin; Linrathan primarily from Gaelic, both Scottish and Irish, and Marái'sta from Scandinavian languages. The dialect of Sorham is an analogue of Norse Gaelic.

Part I

. . . with what pleasure, what joy, you enter harbours you’re seeing for the first time. . .

C.P. Cavafy

Chapter 1

~DAUGHTER~

GWENNA. RUAR SAT BACK IN HIS CHAIR. I can’t accept that.

He is your ally, not your adversary, I told myself, facing the Teannasach of Linrathe across the table. The tariff on fleeces must be increased, I said firmly. Ésparias has no shortage of sheep. We’ve dropped the fees on timber, after all.

Timber benefits only some landholders. Fleeces bring money to almost everyone, Ruar countered. Beside him, his young son shifted a little. Bored, perhaps; we’d been renegotiating the border tariffs for two days.

I glanced down at the figures before me. I still had room to bargain. "A reduction in the tariff on salt fish would serve the coastal torps." I suggested a number. We needed timber, with all the new buildings being constructed, and salt fish for the ships going back and forth to Casil. The coarse wool of the hardy northern sheep was of limited value in the Eastern Empire.

Is this fair, Daragh? Ruar asked his son. In the tradition of Linrathe, the boy was there to listen and learn. This wasn’t the first question the Teannasach had asked him over the last two days.

I think it is, Daragh said. "If Ésparias does not want our fleeces, Varsland will. We will not lose revenue, Athàir."

Nor will we, his father agreed. I accept the new tariffs. Fairly done, Gwenna.

Thank you. Tension seeped from me. My first independent negotiation was over, and I’d got the agreement I’d been directed to produce. Granted, this was a routine process, slight adjustments made every three years, but still—I’d done it. The agreement will be ready to sign soon, will it not, Sorley?

I’ll have two copies done in the morning, Sorley said from down the table, where, in his role as scáeli, he’d been recording the session. Will that be soon enough for you, Ruar?

It will, the Teannasach said. We’ll leave tomorrow. I’ve still things to discuss with Cillian, but I shouldn’t be away from home too long. Nor should we intrude here more than we must.

Sorley’s lips tightened. The needs of government go on. Government and Empires.

And lives. Ruar put a hand on his son’s shoulder as he spoke. Loss comes to us all, and sometimes far too soon. His too would be a house of mourning before long; his wife, Helvi, was dying. She’d been ill for over a year, a wasting illness slowly killing her. An expected death now, unlike the sudden fever that, just over a week ago, had taken the little sister I had barely known.

We—Sorley and Druise and I—had returned home four summers past from our northern travels to my mother’s announcement that she was pregnant. The baby, she told us, was due a few weeks after mid-winter. I’d been—what? Embarrassed, I suppose, although less so than I might have been before that summer and Druise’s blunt words to me. He, I remembered, had been delighted.

But I had gone back to cadet school, and the next summer I’d only had two weeks of leave, and how well could one get to know a five-month-old baby? Lianë was sweet enough, her hair not the almost black of mine and Colm’s but a reddish-gold, and she gurgled and smiled contentedly in Mhairi’s arms.

Except for the requisite three months in the company of my classmates, taking advanced lessons in diplomacy from my father, I’d been home fewer than eight full weeks in the last four years. Not much time to become more than fondly interested in Lianë. In the months of intense study, I hadn’t been treated as a member of the family, but as another senior diplomatic cadet from Ésparias. Only in my private seminars with my father was the formality dropped, and we’d had things other than my baby sister to talk about. She hadn’t been mentioned more than once or twice, and even then, still in the context of our discussions.

Ruar stood. I’ll see you both at dinner, he said. "Come, Daragh; let us find the Comiádh, and discover what you are to read and study." Daragh was twelve, and in the usual course of things he would have become a student of my father’s this year. But there would be no students at the Ti’ach na Cillian until at least midwinter, because in a very few weeks, mourning a dead child or not, we were travelling to Casil to witness the investiture of Alekos, son of the abdicating Empress Eudekia, as the Emperor of the East. Alekos was twenty-one, and unmarried, and the invitation had been specific. I, heir to the leadership of Ésparias, must be present.

I hadn’t needed six years of diplomatic training to decipher that message. Alekos needed a bride, and the Empress thought that bride might well be me.  

I stood too, as protocol required. Further down the table Sorley hauled himself to his feet. I glanced over at him when we were alone. He looked exhausted.

I need some wine. Fatigue roughened his voice. You too, I should think?

Gladly, I replied. Where? The hall? Ruar will be with my parents in their rooms.

We could go to my teaching rooms. He hesitated. But I’d rather be somewhere where I don’t have to be the lord Sorley. There were still one or two students at the Ti’ach, awaiting their escorts. Our rooms?

But— Students weren’t allowed in the annex. He smiled, wearily.

You’re not a student now, Gwenna. Come.  

I matched his tired pace as we crossed the courtyard of the Ti’ach. We had been meeting in what had once been the mews and was now the armoury. A long table had been set up in the cool stone space, giving us privacy and freedom from interruption. In the hall, Sorley opened the door to the annex. I followed him up a flight of stairs and down another long corridor to its far end.

Inside their large sitting room,  the shutters were open, allowing in light and breeze. Musical instruments hung on the walls, and bowls, mostly of Casilani glass in bright colours, stood on an array of shelves. The furniture was deep and comfortable. Sorley motioned me to a chair, taking a jug and cups from the sideboard. Sit.

This is beautiful, I said. He looked around.

Much of this was sent to your father. He poured the wine. From Eudekia, over the years.

Does he come to look at it?

No. He’s never been here.

Of course he hadn’t. What had seemed so simple to me when I was fourteen no longer did. That the complex bonds among my parents and Druise and Sorley needed both deep trust and deeper love, I had understood. But I hadn’t thought then about the ways their lives were also delineated: why my father would never see these rooms; why my mother never went, except in an emergency, to my father’s library. Private spaces, hard to come by in a school, and harder when the true nature of two of the three relationships had to be hidden. Spaces in what they spoke of, too, even behind closed doors.

A price to be paid, for the love and the vision they shared.

Sorley handed me my wine before sinking into a chair opposite. There were hints of silver at his temples now. He was forty-three, I calculated, haggard with grief, despondent.

Where’s Druise? I asked.

Keeping an eye on Colm, I imagine.

My brother had been devastated, and so angry. He still was. He’d been a few weeks shy of eleven when Lianë was born, and he’d adored her from first sight. His only regret at leaving to go to the Ti’ach na Iorlath to begin his medical training a year later was leaving her. Well, maybe leaving his dog, too.

Druise had gone to tell him, and to bring him home, and with his usual thought for what mattered, he’d taken scruffy black-and-white Peritas with him. My mother had been furious over the puppy Sorley had bought for Colm on a whim; it had, I learned later, arrived on the same day she’d realized she was pregnant again. ‘I do not need a puppy and a new baby,’ she’d growled at Sorley, the day we arrived home.

Is he out on the moors again? Colm spent most of his time away from the Ti’ach, out on his horse, or sitting at Lianë’s grave. He hadn’t let me hug him, and at meals, if he was there at all, he was silent.

I expect so, Sorley said. If we weren’t going to Wall’s End so soon, I’d have suggested he went back to Iorlath. He needs something to do, some structure in his life. Having work to do helped me when my mother died when I was much the same age.

"Athàir hasn’t assigned him translations, or essays?"

Sorley shook his head. Not as far as I know.

Because Athàir is too upset, or because you and he have had no time together for him to tell you? I couldn’t ask. My thoughts were interrupted by a gentle double rap at the door.

That’s your mother, Sorley said. It’s open, he called, a little louder.

Don’t get up, my mother said, seeing Sorley beginning to stand as she entered the room. Gwenna! she added, surprise evident in her voice. I didn’t think to find you here.

I can leave. She’d want Sorley to herself.

No, don’t. She went to the sideboard, pouring herself wine. Cillian and Ruar have gone to his study. The boy—his guard took him riding—is the same age Ruar was when I met him. I am getting old.

Sorley didn’t say anything, so I didn’t either. She’d been almost twenty-two when I was born, so she was forty this summer. There were lines on her face now, and she was thinner than I thought she should be. My strong mother, whose impossible arrow shot had killed the Marai king Fritjof, ending a battle and a war. I’d never seen her cry until this past week.

Gwenna, she said, sitting. You did well in the negotiations, I understand?

She did, Sorley almost smiled. Are you surprised?

Not at all.

Please, I said. They were routine tariff agreements, and Ruar knew it. I still didn’t understand why the Teannasach himself had come for such simple talks.

He did, Sorley agreed, but you were calm and reasoned throughout, and firm when you needed to be. A credit to your training.

"And of the right rank to negotiate with the Teannasach of Linrathe, when we were told he would be coming himself, not sending an envoy," I added. But my mother wasn’t really listening.

Sorley, you look terrible.

I am weary. He was about to add more, when the door swung open.

Lena, Druisius said. Do you know where Colm is?

Weren’t you with him? Sorley asked.

Not with him. Watching him, from a distance. But—

But what? my mother said sharply.

"Mathàir, I said, he’s fourteen. He can take care of himself." She ignored me.

He had taken flowers to the grave, Druise said. As he has, every day. Then he sits, for a long time. He talks to her. He saw I watched him and shouted at me to go away. So I did.

Sorley pushed himself up and went to Druisius, putting a hand on his shoulder. Come and sit, Druise. Is the dog with him?

Of course. Druisius let Sorley guide him into the room. His eyes fell on me. Gwenna. Not Kitten, I noted. What—

She’s an adult, Sorley said, handing his partner a cup. Drink that and sit down.

My mother was frowning, a look of controlled impatience and concern. But she waited, sitting on the edge of her chair, until Druise drank some wine. You walked away, she said. Then what?

I left him maybe ten minutes. I walked to the west. To where the hill rises, and back again, Druise said. He and his horse were gone, when I came back. He straightened a little.

Then he rode east, or south, my mother said. Did you call the dog?

I whistled, three times.

Where had he been, earlier?

Where he always goes. The high land at the end of the long pasture. Druise put his wine down. The patrol had not seen him. I will send them out to search. I had not, in case he was here.

No, I said. I’ll look for him. You stay here, Druise.

I’ll come, Sorley said.

No. I will go, and yes, Druise, I’ll take my bodyguard, I said, forestalling the objection I knew he’d make.

He is so angry. My mother’s voice caught. So angry. Even Cillian cannot reach him; he tried, but it was Catilius he quoted, and Colm just swore at him and ran from the room. Sometimes I hate Catilius, too.

I found my bodyguard in the kitchen, drinking tea with Mhairi, and sent her to saddle our horses while I changed into riding clothes. I was fairly sure I knew where Colm had gone, and if the adults—if Sorley and Druise and my mother—were not exhausted and grieving, one of them should have guessed too.

The sun still hung high in the western sky, even with the day moving toward evening. I kicked my horse into a trot along the river path, slowing only for the cottages of the torp, and then urging him into a canter once we were past the buildings.

We arrived at Hagenstorp in less than an hour. I slid off my horse at the forge. Wait here, I said to my bodyguard.

My lady! the smith greeted me. Does your horse need shoeing?

No. But would you know where Shugo is?

The tops, with the flocks.

Thank you. I went back to my horse.

My lady? the smith called. I was sorry to hear of the little one’s death.

Thank you, I said again. I mounted, turning the horse’s head north.

As I had guessed, Colm was with the shepherd, Peritas lying beside Shugo’s sheepdog Meg. I left my horse with my bodyguard before walking across the cropped turf to where the two figures stood.

My lady, Shugo said. Colm turned away.

I’ve come to take my brother home, I said. Where’s your horse, Colm?

By the pool. Shugo jutted his chin. You need to go, lad.

Why? Colm snapped, not looking at me.

Because, I said, "we have the Teannasach and his son as our guests, and your presence is required at dinner."

They shouldn’t be here, he muttered. They’re intruding.

I put a hand on the shepherd’s arm, mouthing, Forgive me, before striding over to face my brother. Colm, you are a prince of Ésparias. Act like it.

I don’t want to! Tears glittered in his eyes.

And do you think Daragh wants to do what he must, either? His mother is dying, but he’s here, learning his role.

Colm sniffed, not replying. Come, I said, more gently.

Gwenna, he said, his voice breaking high. Will you take me away?

Away?

To Wall’s End. I don’t want to be here another three weeks. I keep . . . Tears overflowed. I keep seeing her, hearing her. I want to go away. The dog whined and got up, coming to sit at his feet.

I considered. It wasn’t a bad idea, and not just for Colm’s benefit.

All right, I said. I will. But you must come with me now, and behave at dinner. And I hope your horse is rested, because we’ll need to gallop.

No, my mother said. Dinner was over, and Ruar and Daragh had retired to the annex. We were in my parents’ sitting room, without Colm. I’d told him to leave this to me.

"Mathàir. I used my most reasonable voice. Why not? Sorley told me earlier Colm needs something to do, some structure. He can spend the time with the fort’s doctors, being useful and maybe learning something."

I want him here.

Sorley, I said, offered me wine in his rooms, because he didn’t want to be in public, where he had to be the lord Sorley. The other two students should be leaving tomorrow, and Ruar and Daragh too. If I take Colm away, then none of you have to be anything but yourselves.

"Käresta, my father said gently, Gwenna is not wrong."

Lena, consider what Gwenna is saying, Sorley said. "We have all been playing our roles in front of the students, and even with the Teannasach. In a few weeks there are different roles to be played, for all of us. A space where that isn’t required would be welcome. For me, at least. I am tired."

Riding back from Hagenstorp, formulating my arguments in my mind, I’d thought again of the summer I’d spent travelling with Sorley and Druisius when I was fourteen. A summer of secrets revealed, and the start of comprehending the depths of love among the four people I sat with tonight. ‘See the man,’ Sorley had said to me that summer, about my father.

But today the man I had seen clearly was Sorley: grieving, exhausted, bereft. He had, I realized, been doing his utmost best to hold everyone together: Druisius, his partner for almost twenty years; my mother, who was his closest friend, and my father, whom he loved. My father, who would not have left my mother’s side except when work demanded this past week, and likely would not for some time. Sheltering her as best he could, as he had promised; there to hold her, comfort her. ‘I felt extraneous in their lives,’ Sorley had told me, of the months after my birth. I thought the same was true now.

I can go too. Druise. Of course.

No, Sorley said, almost under his breath.

I want the Breccaith played for her, my mother said. I know that’s not what it’s meant for. But do you remember, Sorley? ‘For all we have loved, and all we have lost,’ you said once, and that is what I want. You know the music now. Will you play it? She turned to me. And then you can take Colm to Wall’s End.

The Breccaith. The traditional mourning ritual of Ésparias’s army, midsummer and midwinter, for the fallen. I could dance it, if you would like, I offered. I had learned it to honour my grandfather, Ésparias’s last Emperor, dead in the battle that had nearly killed my father.

"Would you like that, käresta?" my father asked. His eyes on her were gentle, and full of both patience and sorrow.

I think I would, she answered slowly. For she was a sacrifice, wasn’t she?

My mother went to bed early; she often did, even before. Druise too got up to leave, another habit, one last check of doors and windows and night sounds before sleep. I’ll come with you, I said. "Athàir? Will you wait for me? There is something I’d like to talk to you about alone. It won’t take long."

I walked out into the courtyard with Druise. Considering how much he had drunk tonight, he was remarkably steady, He stopped a few paces out on the flagstones, listening to the night. After a moment he nodded and turned as if to go back into the hall. Druise, I began. He let me speak.

It is true, he said, when I’d finished. I worry for Sorley.

I worry for you, too.

He shrugged. Nothing can change what is. His words were just slightly slurred. He looked out into the darkness. Sorley and I, we have ways to express the anger. But he needs more.

What do you need? I wondered. Aurea, he’d called her, golden one, for her hair. Even my parents had added it to her name, sometimes. Lianë Aurea.

Kitten? Do not expect Cillian to agree.

I kissed his cheek, smelling the fuisce on him, and then I went back to my father.

Chapter 2

~FATHER~

TO ALWAYS BE THE SAME MAN, UNCHANGED BY PAIN, the loss of a child, in long illness. I put the book aside. Catilius’s words brought no comfort but that of familiarity, the calm which comes from reading a well-known text again. Had he loved his children as I did mine? If so, his words had been written to convince himself, a bulwark against grief. I closed my eyes, seeing my dead child; our unexpected youngest, her red-gold hair as fine as strands of silk. I could almost feel her, standing beside me as she so often had, her face on my leg, Understanding, even at three, that I could not pick her up. Unchanged by pain. Was that possible?

I listened. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, but if Lena wept, I could not hear her. Her tears might come later, after Apulo had left me, or not at all. I expected not at all, tonight.

The door from the hall opened. Beads of moisture in Gwenna’s hair caught the firelight. Wine? she asked.

If you like. Handing me the cup, she sat across from me. I took a sip. Stronger than I would have allowed myself. What is it, Gwenna? I should not leave your mother alone.

Just that, she said. "Tomorrow night, should I stay with Mathàir? You need to sleep."

My jaw tightened, an involuntary reaction I should have been able to control. But weariness had its hold on me: weariness, and pain, and grief. And Gwenna was not wrong.

My beloved daughter, I said, hearing the roughness in my voice. My only daughter, now. It is for your mother to tell me when I may leave her. As she will. Soon, I thought. I had seen a change in Lena today; she was calmer. A brittle calm: controlled and tenuous, and it would break into anger before long.

Gwenna flushed, the stain of red on her pale skin visible even in the firelight. I’m worried about you. I put my wine down and held out my arms. She slipped off her chair to kneel beside me, resting her head on my shoulder. I kissed her temple, feeling the softness of her skin. She was so young for what might await her. I’m worried for Sorley, too.

I stroked her damp hair. Subtly put, I thought. We had never spoken of Sorley, a tacit agreement.

We have a few minutes, here and there, and for now that must suffice, I told her. But your reasoning about taking Colm away is sound, and time without responsibility will help us all. As will the Breccaith, as difficult as it will be.

I heard her sniff, fighting tears. "What did Mathàir mean, about Lianë being a sacrifice?"

I could not deal with this tonight, not rationally. The dull ache in my leg had begun to pulse; it needed cannabium, and Apulo’s hands. I cannot speak of this, Gwenna.

She tensed, misunderstanding: I had not chosen my words well. Not because you are too young, I added, not this time. The implications of your mother’s belief are difficult for me and for us all. I am still weighing my response.

But— She pulled away

Do not ask me more.

She nodded. She knew, as all my students did, what the tone I had used meant. Do you need help getting up?

No, I said, more gently. "Thank you, mo nihéan, but Sorley will have asked Apulo to come to me shortly. I will finish my wine and wait for him."

Druise is drinking too much, she said as she stood.

I, alone of us, knew why, a confession made to me long ago. In Lianë, as in all our children, he had seen his atonement for a deed he regretted. He grieved her death honestly; he had loved her, but he grieved too this lost chance for redemption. He is, I said. We all have our ways to mourn.

Chapter 3

~DAUGHTER~

RUAR AND DARAGH LEFT AFTER BREAKFAST the next morning. I and my father accompanied them out into the courtyard, where their guard and their horses waited. The boy mounted, impatient to be away, but his father did not. He glanced around at the buildings, smiling slightly.

I hope, he said to his son, that you enjoy your time here as much as I did. You can have no better teachers.

I am sure I will, Daragh said politely. "Athàir, can we go?"

You may. Ruar gestured to the guard. "I will catch up with you. I am in no danger on the Ti’ach’s land, he added, at the soldier’s frown. Druisius has seen to that. He turned to my father. Comiádh, I intruded at a difficult time."

There was work to be done, my father said, work which could not wait. I too apologize for taking you from Helvi.

"Athàir!" Daragh’s shout.

He is eager to return to his mother, Ruar murmured.

I’m sure he is, I said, feeling the inadequacy of the words. I wish her strength. I wish you all strength, Ruar. I’d known him since early childhood, his days here coinciding with my first lessons from my father, learning my letters.

He acknowledged my words with a nod. At least she is not in pain. Only resignation in his eyes. So you are off to Casil for the first time. I was just about your age when Sorley took me.

You were unimpressed, I said, remembering.

He smiled a little. It’s imposing. Huge, and so many stone buildings. The walls are like cliffs of brick. You’ll see. But I belong to this land, Gwenna, among my people.

He held out a hand, and I stepped forward for his formal kiss. He was just a little shorter than I, but under my hand the muscles of his upper arm were defined and firm. Still a young man. Go safely, I said.

The same farewell for my father; then Ruar mounted. He looked down at me. Gwenna, you belong among your people too. Ésparias needs you more as Faolyn’s advisor than as an Emperor’s consort in Casil. I hope to see you again.

FINALLY WE WERE ALONE as a family, the last of the students and her escort having left not long after sunrise. We’d eaten breakfast—or at least some of us had—but no one had left the table. There was nothing that had to be done: no lessons, no diplomacy. Just a ceremony tonight, an honouring and a farewell.

Cillian, Apulo said softly. The day looks set to rain. If Gwenna is to dance tonight, should it be in this room? I will have the table moved, if so.

That would be best, my father said. Thank you, Apulo.

Is there anything else needed? Do I sing again? He had sung the parting song at Lianë’s burial, after Sorley couldn’t, his clear, pure voice laced with such sorrow. He too had loved her.

No. The offering tonight is the music and the dance, my father said.

Apulo nodded. Without asking, he poured my father more tea, and then went away to the kitchen, the teapot in hand.

Offering? Colm said, his voice fierce. To gods who may not exist?

There are gods, my father said. Or at least one I can vouch for. I have felt his touch.

The god of death, Colm knew the story. Why did he want Lianë?

No one spoke, and then, She was the price demanded, my mother said.

Demanded? I asked. A sacrifice, she’d said the other night. For what?

My life, Lena believes, my father answered.

No, Sorley said, his voice strangled. Lena, no.

I said they would demand something from us all, my mother said. Beyond the music you charmed the dark god with, beyond the supplication offered. Because that was only to one god, and not the one who asked for Cillian’s life. An arrow guided is what must be paid for, and if not Cillian, then Lianë.

You are wrong, Lena, Druise said. I have killed many times. Sometimes only through luck, when I should have died. No sacrifice has been asked.

"You believe the huntress wanted Lianë?" The bronze statue stood in the courtyard, her shoulder shining where she was touched for luck or blessing by my mother and some of the female students. And by me, since childhood.

Four times I asked her for help, my mother said. Three times she gave it. The fourth time, she took her price for the death Sorley ransomed with his music.

"Käresta, my father said. You are blinded by grief and exhaustion. Do not blame the gods; they do no wrong."

My mother, her face drawn, simply shook her head. Do not quote Catilius at me. She pushed her chair back. I am going for a ride. Alone. She did not kiss my father before leaving.

I don’t want there to be gods, if this is what they do, Colm said. "Mathàir speaks as if she knew Lianë was to be a sacrifice. He smashed a fist on the tabletop. Why did you have her if that was her fate? She didn’t deserve to be born just to die."

She was born of love, Colm, my father said quietly. As you were, and Gwenna. Not as a sacrifice. Your mother is distraught and looking for an explanation.

Can I go riding too? Colm asked.

Where? Druise, always the guard.

I don’t know. Away.

"If you wish to spend the day away from the Ti’ach, my father said, you may. I would prefer you went to Hagenstorp and Shugo. But wherever you go, please be here tonight."

Can I go alone?

I’d asked the same of Sorley once, when I had difficult truths to absorb. I hadn’t wanted someone I knew with me; they would have interfered, somehow, just by being there. Why don’t I ask my guard to accompany you? I suggested. She would keep both silence and distance. I’d made that clear at Wall’s End after Lynthe’s promotion: if I had to be guarded, those were my requirements.

Colm’s face relaxed a little. Would she?

If I tell her to, yes. Druise, will that satisfy you?

He grunted his agreement. I went to the kitchen to find my guard and tell her what her duties were today. "You are not leaving the Ti’ach?" she asked.

No. If for some reason I must, Druisius will be with me. I could, to some extent, direct her, but she reported to Talyn, not to me, and ensuring my safety was her first obligation. But Druise would die for me, and she knew it. Not that I was in any danger here. Or anywhere, probably.

Chapter 4

~FATHER~

GWENNA LEFT TO FIND HER BODYGUARD. The woman knew her job, Druisius had reported. Nor did I believe there was any real danger here at the Ti’ach. I had my reasons for maintaining the guard, and not all were about a possible threat from the Marai.

Druisius’s chair scraped on the flags as he stood. I am going to train. I will be gone all morning. Sorley looked up at him. Druisius touched his shoulder for a moment. Neither smiled.

Fatigue purpled Sorley’s eyes. I held out a hand. Come here. He came, slowly, to sit beside me. The baths? I touched his hair, spiky and unkempt. He leant his head into my hand. When I kissed his temple, he said my name, helplessly.

There is no one here, I said. And I have done nothing to raise suspicion, not in a house of mourning. But I moved my hand from his head, years of caution precluding my wish to offer—and find—comfort. He reached out and took it, entwining his fingers with mine on the tabletop. I ran a thumb across his palm. I could find no physical desire, but what lay between us was far more than our rare nights together. A love which, in my many sleepless hours, when only the cat and long-dead philosophers kept me company, I had admitted I did not fully understand.

I heard Gwenna come back into the hall. Mhairi might follow her, I said softly, and let my fingers slide from Sorley’s.

"Druisius has gone to train the torpari boys, and your mother will be riding for some hours. Would you tell Apulo I—we—would welcome the baths?" I asked my daughter.

Of course, she said. Sorley? Can I use the table in your teaching room to write notes this morning?

He nodded. Go ahead.

We soaked for a long time, Apulo keeping the fire burning under the boiler, and the water hot. He’d helped