His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) (17 page)

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 about 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.