“That would go very badly with Flavien,” Veniva said, releasing my arm. She stood up. “Still, you must write to them for whatever little good it may do to hold the Peace. Tell them you support Urdo and he is no tyrant, whatever he is doing in Bregheda.”
“What choice does he have in Bregheda?” I asked. “Glyn is—”
“If the kings won’t accept it, and it seems they won’t, then Urdo is being stupid,” Veniva said firmly.
“There is nobody alive who is the child or the grandchild of a king of Bregheda,” I said. “Cyndylan’s horse tripped and he broke his neck, then old Penda died of grief for the last of his sons. Urdo had to make a decision.”
“Make a decision, yes. He didn’t have to make one that would antagonize half the kings. Glyn is the great-grandson of Minmanton of Bregheda, yes, but he is also Urdo’s own man, and everyone knows it. It looks as if he is trying to control the kingdom.”
“Why ever would he need to bother to?” I threw up my hands. “When I heard, I thought it was another burden he was putting onto Glyn and Garah, and I wondered that he was prepared to manage without them at Caer Tanaga.”
Veniva gave a brief choked laugh, and turned to look out of the window. “You may be sure this is not what Cinvar of Tathal or Cinon of Nene thought when the news reached them. They know their fathers and grandfathers back to the days when they married the trees. Glyn is being raised to be their equal, and he is Urdo’s own man and his wife was a groom and the daughter of a farmer. I knew the kings would hate it. But whatever Urdo is doing, there is no choice but to support him.”
“Is it better to argue it in the letters to Cinvar and Cinon or not?” I asked.
“There is no use writing to Cinvar at all,” she said, turning to look at me. “If Uthbad One-Hand were still alive he might pay attention to you, but Cinvar will not. We have killed Daldaf ap Wyn, who he considers a kinsman. He and Marchel will never forgive us for that. But if it is only Tathal and Magor that is not so bad. Magor will be safe in any case; Aurien will have been careful to make sure the boys know nothing.”
“Good,” I said, and meant it. I took up my pen and a fresh parchment, fit for writing to kings. “So should I mention Bregheda, and my friendship with Glyn?” I hesitated, looking up at her. “Oh Mother, will you write as well?”
She blinked at me, surprised. “What good would that do? I am not a king. I am not your father.”
I smiled. “No, but there is power in your name. There are those among the kings who may pay more attention to you than to me. You know what arguments will move them. You are respected, and you are one of them.”
“One of them?” She stared at me across the little room as if I had gone mad. “I have never been one of them. I was born in Rutipia, in Bricinia that is now Cennet, in the year the last Vincan legions left Tir Tanagiri. When I was twelve years old Avren banished us from our land and our towns and gave all of Cennet to his new Jarnish father-in-law, Hengist. He made an alliance with the very Jarns we had been fighting outside our walls all my life. The Tanagan lords fought Avren and each other but cared nothing for us, no more than Avren did. They gave us no help at all. My father was the magistrate of Rutipia; he was killed when we opened the gates to leave. The people scattered like chaff. There were no towns left. Towns need so many different kinds of people, and they were all scattered and helpless. Gwien . . . your father—” She hesitated, and clearly thought better of what she was going to say. “They call me the last of the Vincans. There are none of my people left now. There are monasteries instead of schools, clusters of farmers’ houses around lords’ houses instead of towns. My own child thinks it is splendid that there is acknowledged law and very few people actually die fighting before they are grown up, at least most years. And what is worst, you are right!”
I didn’t know what to say. “You never told me any of that,” I said, at last.
She laughed. “What good would it do you to know? I brought you up safely and properly and taught you as well as I could. And I never think of any of that, never think about the time before I came here. For years I believed the Vincans would come back one day, but now I know they will not. Only the raiders come from over the sea. Narlahena is fallen and Lossia is overrun and Vinca itself is fallen to the barbarians, and there are only Caer Custenn and us with a sea of them between us, squabbling and killing the people who know and care what civilization is.”
I had never really thought about where Veniva had come from. She was my mother. She was a Vincan, yes, I knew that, but I had not thought she meant it so literally. All my life she had always been at Derwen. “You could still write to the kings,” I said, hesitantly. “They think of you as one of them.”
“Not those of them who remember where I come from, which will be few enough by now,” she said. “Very well, I will do it, if you think it will be any help at all. I would do anything that can sway the straw in the wind to help this Peace hold.”
So we sat there the rest of the afternoon writing letters to all the kings. I wrote first to Cinon and Flavien and Custennin, difficult letters all, trying to stop them rising treacherously while avoiding accusing them of intending to. Then I wrote to all the other kings. To my surprise the easiest letters were those to Alfwin and Ohtar, who I had no reason at all to distrust. It was very strange that distant Jarnish kings were easier to understand than my kin close at hand, but that was the way of it. I knew what to say to reassure them.
I was in the middle of writing to Ayl, and yawning over my work, when a servant came in to tell me that Emlin was here, with the half ala from Magor. I was glad to take a break, although I left Veniva still writing. I have rarely done anything so difficult or so completely useless as writing those letters to the kings.
— 4 —
My running child, from your first step you passed me,
stretched out your arms and charged across the field.
What could I do? You would not heed my warning,
the more I called, the more you would not yield.
How fast you ran! How much you wanted glory!
How brave you were, the world stretched out before.
A name you won, my child, all know your story,
No deed of mine could make you safe once more.
How far you ran, my laughing child, beyond me.
How great you grew, my child I could not save.
How bright you burned, how little you have left me;
nothing but ashes cold within the grave.
— Isarnagan Lament
Emlin was sitting on the window ledge, looked tired but unhurt. He stood as I came up. When I saw him I felt as if a weight had been lifted from me. If Aurien was prepared to murder me then she might have been prepared to bar doors and burn barracks. The safety of my armigers and my horses had been on my mind all day, though I’d pushed the thought away every time it surfaced.
“Sulien! You’re better!” he greeted me.
I waved him back to the seat and sat down beside him. So much had happened that the poisoning and paralysis seemed long ago by now. “The land healed me. But Garian and Conal the Victor are dead, killed by some of Aurien’s household. How about you and the ala?”
“They’re all here safe,” he said. “I spent the night in the stables and left at dawn as you said.”
“Any trouble?” I asked.
“No. Well, Galba’s lady asked us to stay. She said those who had more loyalty to Galba and the White God than to you and Urdo should stay. When she saw we weren’t going to she seemed glad to let us go, almost hurried us out.”
“Did any of them want to stay?” I remembered how they had all cut their hair for Galba. Even the recruits who had come into the ala after his death knew all the stories about him, and one of the stories was his great love for Aurien. I had never tried to discourage this love of Galba. He had been my friend, too; he had formed this ala and given it much of its spirit. I tried to command them well, I had expanded them from six pennons to nine, but they were Galba’
s ala still and fought with the Rod of Magor on their ala banner. As for the White God, many of the armigers had taken the pebble. It was interesting that Aurien was making that claim. I wondered where Thansethan stood.
Emlin looked awkward. “One or two looked to see what their friends were doing, but nobody moved.”
“I’m not asking for names,” I said, as gently as I could. Emlin himself had been Galba’s tribuno before he was mine. Aurien might well have got some of them if I had been dead of drink. “That’s all right. So, you left without being attacked?”
“Who could attack us?” Emlin looked puzzled. “I can see that Aurien could send her guards to fight four people in the forest, but I had three pennons with me, half an ala!”
“Did you see anything of Marchel?” I asked.
“Marchel?” His eyebrows rose in astonishment. “No. Isn’t she in Narlahena?”
As I was explaining the new situation to him as best I could, a servant came up and announced that the dinner I had ordered was ready. I remembered the cook asking me about it that afternoon and agreeing to all his suggestions.
Veniva came out of the accounts room, announcing that she would need to find a new steward. Emlin and I followed her to the eating alcove, where Duncan and Emer soon joined us. Emer looked terrible, her eyes red-rimmed from weeping and with shadows under them so dark they were almost blue. The old scar on her cheek showed angrily red as if she had been scrubbing her face hard. Duncan was looking tired, and I suddenly wondered how old he was. He still went out to the practice yard regularly, though he had not been war-leader since my father died.
We talked about the troubles as we ate. Emer ate nothing but bread, sometimes dipping it in her broth for politeness. I was hungry, but with so many questions I talked more than I ate. When I mentioned Marchel’s supposed invasion, Duncan clicked his tongue.
“Where are her children?” he asked. “Are they at Nant Gefalion with ap Wyn the Smith? We should send swift riders up there to seize them as hostages for her good conduct, and ap Wyn as well.”
“What good conduct?” I asked, swallowing. “She is exiled on pain of death, she can’t be here in honor.”
“No,” Emer agreed, “but Duncan is right. Having hostages might well prevent her moving against us directly.”
“If she doesn’t move against us, she will still move against Urdo, which is as bad; nothing will work but defeating her. She needs to be killed. Her alae could leave, but how could we persuade her to pretend she’d never been here and just take her alae right away back to Narlahena or off to Caer Custenn or—or Rigatona!” I said.
Veniva raised her chin. “Well. But a threat to her children might be enough to do that. Without her what could the levies of Magor and Tathal do against the alae?”
“I don’t like it,” I said. “Either the boys are our enemies, in which case they won’t be at Nant Gefalion but away at Talgarth or Caer Gloran preparing to fight us, or, if they are there, then they are innocent or very stupid.”
“We needn’t harm them,” Veniva said. “Only tell Marchel that we have them in our keeping.”
“And Urdo has taken hostages into the ala many times without harming them,” Emlin said.
“People usually have a choice whether or not to give hostages,” I protested. “They are given as a pledge of faith, not kidnaped.”
“These days, perhaps,” Duncan said, looking sternly at his plate.
“She is an exile, and has no faith.” Veniva shrugged. “And we’re not talking about little children; the boys are grown men now. They are our enemies by their connections, and we should take them if we can. We have killed Daldaf; all his kin will be against us.”
“If they mean us harm they won’t be waiting there tamely to be taken,” I said. “No. That is wrong and I won’t have anything to do with it.”
“Maybe we could invite them,” Veniva said. “It would be safer for them here than up in the hills, if there is trouble. They would not be hostages, but honored guests. And if there is any restraining Marchel then it serves the same purpose.”
I chewed and swallowed the last of my preserved apples, thinking about this. When I looked up all their eyes were on me. “I will send a pennon up to see if they are there, and to warn Nant Gefalion of the danger coming. If Cinvar invades from Caer Gloran they will come that way. I will have them offer ap Wyn and his sons our hospitality, but there will be no coercion in it.”
Duncan sighed, but none of them argued with me.
When we finished eating I went out to the center of the hall and looked at my household, gathered in the alcoves. Being Lord of Derwen and obliged to do it often hadn’t made me any better at making speeches. “You will have heard the news whispered,” I said. “Better to hear it said plainly and by me. There have been attacks, and there may be invasions and uprisings.” I didn’t want to use the word war, though it burned on my tongue. “My sister Aurien ap Gwien is no longer our friend. Do not trust any messages coming from Magor. I will be riding to Magor in arms soon, but I will be calling the levies and enough force will be left here to protect you. I know you are all loyal, and I know you will do what you can. I will speak to the ala in the morning when the rest of the pennons come here from Dun Morr. A hard time may be coming, but we will uphold the King’s Peace and win through.”
I went back to Veniva and the others among a rising buzz of speculation. I would have gone straight off to read the letters in Daldaf’s chest, but Emer put her hand on my arm. “I will sing, if I have your permission,” she said.
“Of course,” I said automatically, my thoughts catching up with my tongue too late. Sing? Now? It was true that we had just eaten, but it didn’t seem the right time for singing. It was already too late to call her back. I sank back on the cushion next to my mother.
Emer went out into the center of the hall and sat on the stool by the great harp, which had been sitting there covered since Morien had died, except for occasional visits by musicians. She took up the little lap harp that sat beside it, removed the leather cover, and tuned it. The conversation rose for a moment when she went out. The people knew her, of course. The queen of Dun Morr was often here, but she was not one of us. Then it slowed and ceased as she tuned the strings, and the hall was silent when she spoke, though she did not raise her eyes from the harp.
“I was thinking,” she said, quietly, “of the first time I ate in this hall, new come to Derwen, twelve years ago now. That was a night we had not dreamed, after the day that had been, when my people were come in arms, a night of friendship made and war averted. So many of those friends are dead now, or scattered. Morien ap Gwien lies under the earth and Conal the Victor lies unburned tonight.” She plucked a string and let the echoes die away before she went on, perhaps to hide the tremor in her voice. “Garian ap Gaius is dead beside him, fallen together in one defense, though on that day they faced each other as enemies. So strangely time and alliances move, and here I sit in this hall tonight to hear that war is coming again.”
Then she plucked at the harpstrings and played the tune of an old Isarnagan lament, a parent singing of a child who is dead. We all knew the song, had heard it many times. When she had played it through she played it again and sang the words, and when she had sung it she played it over again in silence. For the first time I knew in my heart that I had a son who could die in war—Darien was a signifier, he would be first in any charge Urdo’s ala made. Then, immediately, I knew that it made no difference. Every armiger was someone’s child, and my responsibility, and in this war with raised levies from Derwen every one of my people who fought and fell was like a child to me. I could not hold them back and keep them safe because someone’s heart breaks when everyone dies, no more than a child can be kept from running free. There are wars that have to be fought whatever the cost, however much the true cost should be remembered. Every battle since Caer Lind I had written letters to the survivors of my fallen. While that task never grew easier, those who chose to fight were not c
hildren; they were grown warriors who had chosen to hazard themselves to protect those safe at home. More people would have died had I left those battles unfought, and many of them would have been children and unarmed farmers. Their deaths were heartbreak, yes, but they were a price they had paid willingly for the Peace. Emer had a right to mourn, but I suddenly felt angry with her for diminishing Conal’s death like this. He had died laughing and, as he had said himself, in no unworthy cause.
Veniva leaned over. She had a tear on her cheek, I don’t think there was a dry eye in the room by then. Emer was still playing the tune on the harp, and weeping. I thought Veniva was going to say something about Morien, or even Darien, but what she whispered was, “Who does Emer ap Allel have to mourn like that? Her daughter is eleven years old and safe in Dun Morr with Lew.”
I was jerked out of my mood by the question. “Her mother, Maga—” I began feebly.
“That is not a song you sing for your mother dead more than ten years ago,” Veniva hissed in my ear. “That is a song you sing for a child or a lover lost—” She paused. “Surely not Conal? He killed her mother!”
I moved a little away and looked straight at her. “It would be a great impiety,” I said, gravely and very low.
“It would indeed.” Veniva’s look spoke volumes. “Well, if anyone remarks on it to me I shall tell them about the war the poor woman lived through in Connat before she was sixteen years old, and how personally she takes these things.”
When Emer came back we congratulated her on her singing, and then I took a good lamp and went off to search Daldaf’s possessions.
I had never had cause to go into his room before and I looked around curiously. It was just off the hall, as any steward’s room would be. The walls were limewashed white, like everywhere else. There was one small window with tendrils of ivy poking in, a bed, and a chest at the foot, much like my room or anyone’s room. I found it hard to picture him plotting treachery in this pleasant place. I set the lamp on the windowsill to add to the late light coming through. There was a soot mark there to show that it was where Daldaf usually put a lamp or a candle. I sat down on the bed and opened the chest.