A Rising Moon Page 10

  Orla followed their gazes.

  Atop the northern hill, gleaming in the sunlight, was a small temple, one whose lines were entirely familiar to Orla: the temple at Pencraig as it existed in her memory, only now seemingly solid and real, looking as if it had been created from the face of a glowing moon. Orla started to move up the hill toward it. “Orla!” she heard both Greum and Magaidh call, but she ignored them, climbing the hill as quickly as she could, grasping at bushes and rocks to pull her up toward the temple.

  Her clothes streaked with mud and brambles, her hands filthy, she clambered up to the summit of the hill to stand in front of the temple. She’d thought it only a dream image, but she placed her hand on it and found it to be solid stone, the same white marbled facade she remembered touching many times as a child. The open doorway beckoned her and she stepped inside.

  The interior was also the same: there were the sun-paths beneath the four windows, laid in gold in the tiled floor and intersecting at the small altar in the center under the open domed roof. And on the altar itself, not a bust of Emperor Pashtuk but a painted and gilded image of the Goddess Elia.

  “How . . . ?” Orla breathed.

  “How indeed?” Magaidh’s voice asked from the doorway. Orla turned to see both Magaidh and Ceanndraoi Greum standing there, their cloaks as stained from the climb as her own. In the shadows of the temple, a trio of anamacha lurked near them. “You did this with Iomhar? Not your mother, not the Moonshadow? With Iomhar?”

  “Aye,” Orla said in a whisper. It seemed nearly sacrilege to raise her voice here. “You said to cast a spell, and I didn’t know what spell to cast, and I was thinking of home and being with my mam there at the temple when I could no longer hold the power and had to release it.” She stopped, her hands gesturing at the space around them. “This is my memory of that place made real.”

  “It’s not possible,” Greum insisted. His gravely, overloud voice seemed a desecration.

  Magaidh gave a soft laugh. “Not possible, Ceanndraoi? How strange of you to say, since here it is.” She stomped her booted foot on the tiles for emphasis, the sound echoing from the hard stone walls. “It seems to me to be entirely possible.” Magaidh smiled at Orla. “I think you should be teaching me. Your mam . . . I’m not sure even Voada could have done this. I know I couldn’t.” She glanced at Greum, scowling next to her. “Could you do the same, Ceanndraoi?” she asked, her voice deceptively sweet. “Could you create a temple from the pure energy of Magh da Chèo?”

  Greum didn’t answer. His scowl deepened, carving deep canyons in the lines of his face. “You had no right, Draoi Magaidh,” he husked out. “No right to claim the girl as your student. She came to me, not to you.”

  “I’m not her teacher,” Magaidh answered. “At best, I’m only a poor guide. But I’m her friend, as I was to her mother. Maybe that’s what you should have been—with Voada as well as Orla. Had you done that, maybe everything would have been different.”

  Greum’s face went as red as his hands. He spat on the tiles of the temple and ground it in with the toe of his boot. Without another word, he left. Magaidh shrugged, turning to Orla. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I may have just made things worse for you. That wasn’t what I wanted, but the man’s attitude . . .”

  “No need to apologize for that,” Orla told her. “I feel the same way.”

  Magaidh’s short laugh rang out in the temple. “I can well imagine that you do.” Magaidh looked toward the doorway. “Should we go back with the ceanndraoi so he can chastise us properly in front of everyone else?”

  Orla pressed her lips together as she looked around the temple, filled with light and shadow and Elia’s figure gleaming in the sunlight pouring through the open roof. It felt as if she’d somehow managed to come home, even though home was empty of the family she had loved. “No. I think I’ll stay here awhile longer.”

  “Then I’ll stay here with you,” Magaidh said. “And you can tell me about this place and your memories of your mam.”

  10

  Changes Wrought

  THE SUMMONS CAME UNEXPECTEDLY a double hand of days later, and Altan had no choice but to answer. He hadn’t expected to see the emperor again until the man’s departure for Rumeli and Mundoci, scheduled for two days from then. But there it was, and so Altan had Tolga harness the whites so the emperor might notice that his gift was again being used to bring Altan back to the Great-Voice’s palace.

  When Altan was ushered into the emperor’s presence, it was in the emperor’s private quarters. Only Pashtuk himself was present, with the exception of two slaves standing stiff-backed in their livery against the wall. Pashtuk was seated in a plush, high-backed chair before which was a plate of fruits and pastries as well as a steaming pot of spiced wine. Pashtuk gestured to an empty chair on the other side of the table and watched as Altan took the offered seat. One of the slaves hurried over to pour him wine.

  “You’re walking much better, Commander,” Pashtuk said. “It seems you heal quickly.”

  “I’ve mostly learned to hide the limp better, my Emperor,” Altan told him. “I don’t want my men talking about how their commander’s getting old and slow. I’d rather my sub-commanders didn’t get the idea that I’m able to be pushed aside.”

  Pashtuk chuckled at that. “Now that’s a wise decision. Perhaps Empress Damla should have followed your example. But then I wouldn’t be emperor, would I?”

  Altan reached down and took a slow sip of his wine to give himself a moment to consider that comment. After the death of the unfortunately childless Emperor Hayat, who had ruled for nearly seven long decades, the throne had briefly been claimed and occupied by his already elderly younger sister Damla. The young Pashtuk, a distant cousin of the empress and then a rising, charismatic sub-commander of the elite palace guards, had led a successful coup a hand of years later. Pashtuk had taken the throne from the empress and had her executed.

  Perhaps Empress Damla should have followed your example . . . Altan forced a smile to his lips as he set down his cup. “An army officer generally expects to die in battle of one sort or another,” he said carefully. “I don’t like leading my people from behind.”

  Pashtuk nodded, stroking his oiled beard idly. “And an emperor generally expects to rule until he dies or someone more ambitious kills him in order to take his place. An emperor will either die peacefully in his bed when the thread of his life is run, or violently and suddenly; there are no other choices. The key to living a long life is to anticipate who has that type of ambition and get rid of them first.” He smiled then, slowly. To Altan the gesture seemed somehow ominous. He seemed to feel eyes on his back though there were no guards visible in the room. An archer or two behind the trellis, waiting for Pashtuk’s order to loose their arrows? Or poison in the wine I just sipped?

  “My Emperor, I hope you don’t think—” Altan began, then stopped as Pashtuk lifted a hand, still smiling.

  “I don’t smell any such ambition in you, Commander,” Pashtuk said, and Altan felt the knot in his stomach release somewhat. “No, you’re where you wish to be in life: at the head of your army and loyal to your emperor. But sometimes where you want to be is not where you will finish.”

  Altan could feel his brow furrowing in confusion. “I don’t understand . . .”

  “Tell me, Commander,” Pashtuk interrupted, “do you think you can defeat the Cateni?” His dark eyes glittered as they stared at Altan from under olive-toned ledges.

  Altan sat back stiffly. He wondered if Pashtuk somehow knew what he had already set in motion. He answered carefully. “With the troops you’re sending me, yes, I believe I can take Onglse, and that will strike a terrible blow to the Cateni.”

  Pashtuk’s smile lingered, then dissolved. “That’s an interesting response. What I want to know is whether taking Onglse will defeat the Cateni entirely. Will it make them good, obedient, and productive members
of my empire? Will it end the northern clans’ rebellions?”

  “You’re asking me to foretell the future, my Emperor. I’m just—”

  “Yes,” Pashtuk broke in. “You’ve said it before: you’re just a soldier, so I shouldn’t expect you to be a seer. That’s the answer of someone who doesn’t wish to offend his master. I’ve already told you that I don’t see you as dangerously ambitious. Give me the truth as you see it, Commander, not a carefully phrased avoidance of it.”

  Altan hesitated for a breath, wondering if truth was actually what Pashtuk wanted or if his comment was designed to make Altan say something that would doom him. I’m a poor warrior in this kind of battle. Give me a spear and Tolga in my chariot’s harness and the enemy arrayed before me. As for the genuine truth—he won’t take that well. Altan took a breath.

  “No,” he said at last—just that single word. Then the rest of it tumbled out. “This is how I see it, my Emperor, from a soldier’s perspective. If we attack Onglse, the clans will rise up again and oppose us every step of the way. When we take the island—and with the additional troops, we can do that—the uprisings still won’t end. Clan warriors and draoi may come across the River Meadham once more. They’ll oppose every one of our attempts to establish or control towns in the north. If they can’t defeat us directly, the clan àrds will take their people and retreat into hidden mountain holdings, springing out from the very rocks to attack us whenever they can. You would have to send enough soldiers to cover every stone in their entire land to root them all out. Your grandchildren will still be fighting them long after we’re both gone.”

  Pashtuk’s face remained impassive. He reached down and plucked a grape from the table, turning it before his eyes as if fascinated by what he saw. “That’s not what Great-Voice Utka believes. He would say that you’re a frightened and already-beaten commander. He’d say you actually admire these Cateni.”

  Pashtuk was still staring at the grape. Ah, well. I might as well die casting the poor weapons I have . . . “Great-Voice Utka—if you’ll pardon my bluntness, my Emperor—is giving you the answer of someone who doesn’t wish to offend his master.”

  Altan fully expected to hear the groan of leather bowstrings at full draw and feel the harsh impact of arrows in his back. But instead Pashtuk let the grape drop as he slapped his thighs with both hands, leaned back in his chair, and roared with laughter. “Ah, you are indeed a treasure, Commander Savas. I can see why Great-Voice Utka despises you.” Then the amusement vanished as quickly as it had come, and Pashtuk leaned forward again. On either side of him, the slaves looked carefully straight ahead as if they’d heard nothing at all. “So do you admire the Cateni, Commander, as the Great-Voice claims?”

  Altan shrugged. “‘Admire’ is a strong word. As a military commander, as someone who has fought them in battle, I have great respect for them, my Emperor. I’d be a fool to say otherwise. Their warriors are the equal of the best Mundoan soldiers, if less disciplined, and the draoi . . . our sihirki are a poor jest against them. Compared to the least-talented draoi, our most accomplished sihirki is a toddler against a full-grown adult. A good commander has to respect a competent enemy, because to underestimate them is to inevitably fall to them. But admire?” Altan shook his head. “I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use.”

  Pashtuk sniffed at that, his eyes narrowing. “Great-Voice Utka has made his decision, and that is for you to take Onglse as soon as the troops arrive here and are ready. He is the Great-Voice and my voice here on the island of Albann. I expect obedience from you, Commander.”

  “As I’ve already told you, I’m loyal to my emperor.” Altan raised his chin until his gaze met that of Pashtuk. “And I would insist that I was also being loyal to you, my Emperor, when I disobeyed Great-Voice Vadim and abandoned the assault of Onglse to confront Voada. My loyalty is to the throne and what is best for the empire; if the Great-Voice’s orders endanger that, then I’ll always—always—choose to serve the throne in Mundoci. If that’s not sufficient for the emperor, then all you need do is ask is for my resignation or my life. You may have either, freely.”

  “You’re at least consistent in your impudence, Commander. We’ll make an agreement, you and I. For the time being, you’ll do as Great-Voice Utka asks and take my army to Onglse.” Pashtuk’s finger prowled his beard once again. “I leave in two days; the troop ships should arrive within the moon if the winds have been good. Know that I’ll be watching Albann very carefully, Commander, and if necessary, I’ll do what I believe is best for the empire in Albann.” Again the vague smile lurked within the whiskers of the man’s beard. “Commander, it may be that eventually you’ll end up somewhere a simple soldier wouldn’t expect.”

  Again Altan wondered at meanings hidden behind the emperor’s words. Is he suggesting that I become Great-Voice? Altan wondered if that was something he wanted, but he had no answer within himself. “I’ll serve wherever you wish, my Emperor,” Altan answered.

  There seemed no better way to respond.

  * * *

  Sorcha brought a tray with a steaming wine flagon, two mugs, sweet bread, and a jar of honey from Bàn Cill’s hives into Orla’s bedroom. She set it down carefully on the bed, and Orla smiled at the woman. “What this? You don’t need to act like my servant. You’re my dearest friend.”

  Orla saw Sorcha return the smile at that. “I thought you might want this. You were so tired when you came back last night . . .” Orla saw Sorcha glance quickly to the window of the bedroom, where the temple Orla had created could be seen through a gap in the shutters, gleaming white against a deep blue sky. Sorcha shook her head. “Orla, I can’t imagine creating that. An entire building. It’s such a gift you have . . .” She stopped again, and her movement caused the mugs on the tray to rattle against the wood.

  “You’re so good to me, Sorcha,” Orla told her. “Here, let—”

  They both reached for the wine at the same time, and Sorcha’s hand closed over Orla’s on the flagon’s handle. The touch lingered, then Sorcha drew her hand back. “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Sorry? For a simple touch? I don’t understand.”

  Sorcha’s nut-brown eyes evaded Orla’s gaze. She stared at the hand in her lap, the hand that had touched Orla. “Do you . . . ?” Sorcha began before taking a long breath and starting again, her gaze coming back to Orla’s. “Do you miss being with someone? I mean, truly being with them?”

  Orla shrugged. She poured out the wine, drizzled honey over the bread, then handed one slice to Sorcha, noticing that the woman was careful not to allow their hands to touch. “I had the normal childhood feelings about a few boys, but I was only fourteen summers when Bakir”—she paused, grimacing at the painful memory—“took me. I’d never known anyone that way before him, and with Bakir it was more torture than anything. Every time. Rape and lust, not love. Not even friendship or affection. And if that’s the way it always is between men and women, then I don’t care if I’m ever with a man again.” Orla sipped the wine. “Is it always that way?” she asked Sorcha.

  Sorcha gave a barely noticeable shake of her head. She cupped the mug between her hands, holding it on her lap. “Not always. Alim . . . I suppose he could be gentle enough when he was in a good mood, but that wasn’t often, and with the few other men I’ve known, it was always quick and secretive because it had to be. There was nothing more than just the moment. Except with . . .”

  Orla waited, but Sorcha didn’t elaborate. “Except with?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sorcha said. Her face was flushed, and she brought up the mug and drank quickly. “I’m sorry for what Bakir did to you. You deserve far better.”

  “We both do,” Orla told her. “Maybe we’ll find it sometime.”

  Sorcha’s smile appeared twisted and uncertain. “Maybe,” she answered.

  * * *

  Those in Bàn Cill were calling Orla’s creation “the Moon
shadow’s Temple.” That wasn’t, however, a name that the draoi, the acolytes, the warriors, or the servants dared use when Ceanndraoi Greum was within earshot. In fact, they avoided mentioning the new temple at all around Ceanndraoi Greum, though Orla was fairly certain it had been an intense subject of conversation among the Red-Hand’s confidants.

  A hand of days after its creation, the temple Orla had brought into existence still gleamed in the dawn atop the hill just outside Bàn Cill. The edifice was visible to anyone who glanced in that direction from the grounds as long as the Great Temple itself didn’t block the view.

  Orla walked into the new temple now after leaving Sorcha and Bàn Cill, listening to the echo of her footsteps against the pale stone that mimicked the appearance of a full moon. The Moonshadow’s anamacha glided with her silently, though Orla thought she could sense a certain quiet satisfaction in the faces that flittered across its shadowed countenance.

  She’d come here every day since she’d made the building and found it the same every time.

  She had noticed the differences between the temple at Pencraig and this memory she’d somehow plucked from the energy of Magh da Chèo and made solid. The altar seemed to flow without a seam from the tiles of the floor. The statue of Elia was far more realistic than other images she’d seen of the goddess, and if it was paint that gave the statue its color, she could see no brushstrokes at all on the surface. Orla reached out and placed her fingertips on the statue’s cheek, and despite the fact the day was overcast and the sun wasn’t yet high enough to touch the altar through the open roof, she found the surface of the statue warm, as if she’d touched the flesh of a living body.