A Rising Moon Read online

Her mother’s voice crooned the words, and Orla heard the others within the anamacha speaking in unison with her, the vibrant, compelling voice of the Moonshadow loud among them. Orla ignored them, blocking them from her mind as she listened to the trio of people in the room with her.

  “We’ll fight with you, Ceanndraoi,” Comhnall said easily. “Those of Clan Mac Tsagairt aren’t afraid to spill their blood. We proved that with Ceanndraoi Voada, and we’ll prove it again. Magaidh?”

  The draoi was shaking her head. “I’ve not yet heard Ceanndraoi Greum’s answer to my question,” she said. “Are you saying that both Draoi Orla and I are liars, that she didn’t do as she said she did when she created the Moonshadow’s temple? I won’t follow someone who believes that I lie, nor will I suggest that anyone else I know follow such a person, including my husband.”

  Greum’s eyes narrowed further, his voice no more than a mumble. “I was angry,” he said. “I only wondered if you were mistaken in your assumption about Draoi Orla.”

  “Then you believe that I lied, Ceanndraoi?” Orla said.

  “Would it matter?” he asked, turning toward her.

  “There was no lie. It was only Iomhar’s power that I used to create the temple,” she responded. “What I suggest you consider is this: can you imagine what I might be capable of with my mam’s shade or the Moonshadow herself? Be careful what you say, Ceanndraoi, because if you insult me, you insult Leagsaidh Moonshadow, you insult Iomhar, you insult my mother, and you insult all of those who dwell with them. They are listening to you right now. They howl at me, and if you could hear what they tell me and what they say about you, you wouldn’t stand there so arrogantly. Do you think your anamacha more powerful than mine, Ceanndraoi? Do you think you could have stood against the Moonshadow and prevailed when my mam held it? Would you be willing to make that mistake now? Voada is with me, and she says to tell you that if I want the torc of the ceanndraoi, I should simply take it now.”

  Greum took a step back from her, his breath a hiss as he touched the silver-wrapped brass torc around his neck with a ruddy hand. “You’re the arrogant one, if you believe you’ll fare better with the Moonshadow than she did.”

 

  But Orla pushed Voada back further in her mind. she told her.

  “Ceanndraoi,” she said, her voice now only her own, “here’s the simple truth. I don’t want your title unless it’s freely given to me. I know little of war, and so regardless of what my mother believes, I don’t know whether you and the ceannàrd are right or whether Eideard Iosa is. But I spoke the truth about the temple. I trust those who believe me. I trust Sorcha above all, who helped me escape from the Mundoa. I trust Magaidh, who has shown me more than you could about what it means to be a draoi. Beyond those two . . .” Orla shrugged. “Let me ask you this, Ceanndraoi: what would it mean if the Moonshadow’s anamacha were with your army? Is that a weapon you want, or are you willing to leave it behind? It all depends on how you answer me now. Do you believe that I spoke the truth to you?”

  Her mother’s voice and the other voices in the anamacha shrieked their fury at that. she told them. Again she pushed them back, and back even more, until she felt the anamacha slip from her entirely and the winds of Magh da Chèo receded from her mind. Her vision clearer, she held Greum’s gaze, waiting patiently for him to answer, her head cocked slightly to the side.

  Finally Greum gave her a bare hint of a nod. “I believe you,” he said, “and the Moonshadow is a weapon we need.”

  “Then you’ll have it, Ceanndraoi,” she said.

  “Good,” Greum managed to say. He looked to Comhnall. “The ceannàrd and I should go and talk to the àrds and draoi before they leave Bàn Cill. If you’ll excuse us, Draoi Orla, Draoi Magaidh . . .”

  Comhnall rose from his seat and kissed Magaidh on the forehead. The two men left the room, and Orla let out a deep, long sigh. Behind her, she heard Magaidh take a sip of her wine, the pottery scraping against wood as she lifted it. Orla rose and opened the inner door. She smiled, seeing Sorcha standing on the other side, where she’d obviously been listening to the conversation.

  “I hope you don’t believe that apology,” Sorcha said quietly. “The man still doesn’t believe you.” Behind them Magaidh chuckled at the comment.

  “I know,” Orla told her. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Sorcha cocked her head to the side, her long hair sliding from her shoulder. “You’re changing. The Orla who left the Mundoan encampment wouldn’t have stood up to Greum Red-Hand as you just did.” Sorcha’s hand covered Orla’s, and she leaned forward. Her soft voice was breathy, close to Orla’s ear, the words warm against the side of her neck. “I think it’s a wonderful change. And necessary.”

  Orla hugged Sorcha, her arms around her waist.

  Magaidh’s chair scraped against the tiles, and Orla heard the rustle of linen. “I’m going to find Comhnall and try to learn what Greum’s really thinking.”

  Orla released Sorcha, stepping back. “You don’t need to go, Magaidh,” she said. “Stay, and the three of us will drink the rest of the wine.”

  Magaidh smiled, her gaze moving between Sorcha and Orla. “No,” she said, still smiling. “I think I’ll leave the wine to the two of you.” She moved to the room’s door. Her hand on the leather pull loop, she paused. “Sorcha’s right, Orla. You’re changing and becoming stronger, and I’m glad to see it. You do remind me of your mam, and I’ll be here for you as I was for your mother. There’s still more I want to show you: how to be a war draoi, how to cast your spells from a moving chariot.”

  “I’ll need that,” Orla told her.

  “Then we’ll start tomorrow.” Magaidh nodded, then pulled the door open and stepped into the corridor beyond. The door swung slowly shut as they heard her footsteps fade.

  “I’ll also be here for you,” Sorcha said. “Always.”

  Orla hugged the woman again. “And I need that, too,” she answered. “More than you know.”

  PART TWO

  YEAR 24 OF PASHTUK’S REIGN

  11

  Against the Storm

  ALTAN TOOK WHAT ADVANTAGE he could of the endless delays, hoping that Great-Voice Utka wouldn’t notice the Cateni couriers he was sending north and west. Storms delayed the arrival of the trio of troop ships by an entire moon and more. Training the new cohorts—mostly younger and inexperienced soldiers who had tasted battle only in a few border skirmishes in Rumeli—took longer than anyone had hoped. Another moon passed before Altan and his sub-commanders were satisfied they could take them into battle against Cateni warriors and their draoi. Then the weather turned foul, the roads became muddy morasses, and Altan sent a message to the Great-Voice that he planned to wait for better weather.

  Utka was furious when he learned that and called Altan into his presence. “Your soldiers aren’t capable of fighting in poor weather?” he asked before Altan had even finished making his obeisance. “Does their armor melt in the rain? Are the soldiers Emperor Pashtuk has sent you so frail that a bit of Albann’s weather gives them lack-breath? Do you say to your enemy ‘Oh, let’s wait until the sun is shining before we engage’?”

  The Great-Voice’s guards chuckled at the jest, and Altan forced a tight smile to his lips, pushing down the rush of irritation at Utka’s sarcasm. “It’s the roads, Great-Voice,” he answered. There was no chair set before the Great-Voice’s throne, so Altan stood there, the rain from the downpour outside dripping from his woolen cloak and puddling on the tiles at his feet. “I’ve fought battles in worse weather, but we’ve a long march in front of us. With the mud and flooding, the supply train wagons are going to have trouble keeping up with the infantry and the mounted troops, a
nd the sihirki generally ride with the wagons. Our war chariots are lighter, but may also bog down. If we happen to encounter Cateni forces early, then having the supply train a day or more behind could be disastrous. As soon as we begin to move, we have to assume that word will go out to the clans. I’d like us to be moving faster than those rumors. In my opinion, Great-Voice, waiting another hand or two of days will make a great difference to our chances. Besides, that will give the shipwrights more time to complete their tasks.”

  Great-Voice Utka stroked the oiled braids of his beard. “Is that why you want to linger here, Commander, or have you simply lost your taste for battle in the last year? Perhaps I should talk to Sub-Commander Musa or Ilkur and see if one of them is less worried about a little mud and rain.”

  Altan bowed his head toward the man. He sits there: a noxious, lazy lizard. “I serve at the emperor’s pleasure,” he answered. “My scribe would be happy to write a letter of resignation to the emperor for me to sign, if that’s the Great-Voice’s wish.” And you can deal with the emperor’s response, Altan thought, knowing that Utka would also be considering that.

  “I do not wish that!” With the half shout, Utka slammed his fist down on the arm of the throne. The gilded brass bracelet on his wrist cracked hard against the marble, the report of metal against stone echoing in the hall. The guards on either side of Utka glanced at one another, hands tightening on the shafts of their spears. “What I wish is to see the northern clans finally under the rule of Emperor Pashtuk. What I wish is to see the island of those accursed draoi taken as it should have been long ago and their temple there razed. I want to see the bones of their warriors white on the fields. That’s what I wish, Commander, and you seem to be telling me that the damned weather prevents me from having that wish fulfilled.”

  Altan thought that the Great-Voice sounded like nothing more than a petulant child throwing a tantrum. Unfortunately he was a child who could order Altan’s head removed from his shoulders if he wished, and the emperor was no longer there to stop him. “Then as the Great-Voice wishes,” he said, careful not to put too much emphasis on the last word, “I will have the troops arrayed, the wagons supplied, and we will leave Savur at sunrise tomorrow regardless of the weather. If you’ll excuse me, Great-Voice, I have much to do . . .”

  Altan could see Utka’s eyes—like those of some fat sow—narrow as if the man were trying to decide whether to let Altan go. Altan made a deep bow and swept his cloak back over his shoulder, sending droplets flying with the motion. He half expected Utka to bark something at him as he started to back away, head down, toward the reception room’s doors. But Utka only grunted as Altan retreated. “Our commander’s terrified by a bit of mud,” he heard Utka say sotto voce to the nearest guard, who gave a dutiful laugh at the jibe. Altan pretended that he hadn’t heard. The door wardens swung the door open behind him with a quiet protest of hinges; Altan gave the Great-Voice a final bow and finally turned to stride away.

  * * *

  It was worse than Altan had expected. Great-Voice Utka, against Altan’s express wishes, had insisted that the troop ships assigned to transport the army to Onglse be harbored in Muras on the River Meadham rather than at the better but more distant harbor of Gediz on the Storm Sea. The plan had been to follow the main road west along the southern bank of the River Iska from Savur to Trusa, crossing the Iska there at the former capital, then traverse the Great North Road to Muras and the River Meadham.

  The first four days, the rain was persistent and torrential, pelting down and turning the roads into nearly impassable quagmires. The boots of the soldiers were packed with heavy mud up to their knees as they marched along miserably. Altan rode in his war chariot in the midst of the line with Tolga driving the pair of horses from the traces—not the emperor’s gaudy whites, which had been left behind in the stables of Savur, but their well-trained gray-and-black warhorses. He cursed loudly as the hooves of the horses tossed clods of mud into the air, painting his body with brown streaks. The wheels were caked with the same mud, and the chariot had twice sunk halfway to the axle; the troops had needed to help the horses pull it loose again.

  Worse, the Iska was leaving its banks. The trees along the river ascended from brown pools, and the fields nearest the river were shallow lakes.

  In good weather, they would have easily been in Trusa in a hand of days, but Altan figured they were still three or more days away at this pace. As for the army’s supply train, it was mud-coated and straggling somewhere in the distance.

  “We’re not going to get to Onglse any quicker than if we’d just waited in Savur for this to stop.”

  Sub-Commander Musa’s chariot had come alongside Altan’s. Under the shelter of his helmet, his thick black eyebrows were lowered as rain dripped from the ridges of battle scars on his brown skin. “All we’ve done is show our hand,” Musa continued. “By now the rumors are traveling faster than we are.”

  Altan knew that to be true; in fact, he was counting on it. “I have my orders, Musa,” Altan told him, and Musa tapped his cuirass in response.

  “I understand completely, Commander.” He glanced around to see if anyone other than their drivers was within earshot. “But between us, the Great-Voice has made a mistake, and I just hope we don’t end up being the ones to pay for it.”

  Altan gave no reply to that. “Did you send out the scouts I asked for?”

  “I did, and they just returned. That’s what I came up to tell you. They say the Iska’s completely overrun its banks near Trusa and that the bridge crossing the tributary of the Big Muddy might not be safe. They said that the locals have heard rumors of the Great Bridge at Trusa also being closed due to the Iska’s flooding.”

  Altan sighed at the news. “Send our best engineers forward to inspect the Big Muddy’s bridge. If it’s truly not safe, then have them make it so—we don’t have any choice unless we want to travel overland around the entire tributary system of the Iska and waste an entire season doing it. We have to have the bridge crossable—and the Great Bridge as well, though we’ll deal with that when we get there. We’ll figure on camping today on this side of the Big Muddy and crossing over tomorrow. Pass the word along, and get those engineers working.”

  Musa nodded, sending raindrops spattering from the plume atop his helm. His driver yanked hard on the reins of the horses, and Musa’s chariot moved quickly toward the rear of the line. “I know this isn’t what you planned for, Commander,” Tolga commented as Musa left.

  Altan wondered just how much Tolga knew of what he’d planned. Tolga might be his lover, and he trusted the man, but he’d still been careful not to tell him everything. He wondered if perhaps he’d been talking in his sleep. “No, it’s not,” he admitted. “None of it is. Everything’s shifting.”

  “I’m sure you’ve made excellent contingency plans, then, Altan.” Tolga glanced back over his shoulder.

  Altan resisted the temptation to snap at Tolga for his presumption, especially here in the open. But there was no one around to overhear, and Altan suspected that most of the men were aware of or suspected their relationship and kept a judicious silence about it. Certainly both Musa and Ilkur had known about Tolga’s predecessor, Lucian. Altan swallowed his irritation, knowing that it was at least partially induced by the damned unrelenting rain.

  “There are plans,” Altan answered. “As to whether they’re excellent or not . . . Take us forward, Tolga. I need to see things for myself.”

  * * *

  The Big Muddy was living up to its name; what Altan saw was a torrent of opaque brown water strewn with logs, uprooted trees, and other floating debris. What was generally a shallow and relatively tame river was now raging, fast-moving rapids, unfordable anywhere along its swollen length. The debris the river carried was crashing into and stacking up against the stone pilings of the bridge, the water sluicing in an angry froth through what remained of the open space under its single spa
n.

  But the engineers thought the bridge still sound enough to cross. “She’ll hold, Commander,” was the judgment of Halim, a stout, short, tree trunk of a man with gnarled fingers that looked as if they’d been encased in ancient worn leather. Without helm or hood, his dark hair dripped constantly down the oilcloth cloak he wore. His hands clenched and unclenched as he stared at the bridge, scowling gap-toothed at the structure. A small, dilapidated farming village huddled around a small knoll on the far side, the buildings dripping forlornly in the rain. The residents weren’t visible, though trails of gray-white smoke from the chimneys and the smell of burning peat indicated that they were there, safely inside. “I’ve been on her, and the beams are shaking from all the stuff in the water hitting her, but they’re still sound. I’ve had my people shoring up the upstream structure to slow down the erosion of the banks. If this rain keeps up, I won’t guarantee she’ll still be standing in two days, but right now . . .” A shrug. “She’ll hold. But if we need to cross, I wouldn’t wait, were I you.”

  As Altan watched from the eastern bank just above the bridge, what appeared to be part of the thatched roof of a small cottage came twirling down the river, spinning in the current, hit the stone piers of the far bank, and shattered into a maelstrom of sodden straw.

  Altan glanced back down the road. “And the supply train?” he asked.

  “The bridge will hold for now, as I said. Today. Probably tomorrow. Whether she’s still standing by the time the supply train catches up to us is in the hands of the One-God and the weather,” Halim answered. “I wish I could give you a better answer, Commander, but I can’t.”

  “Then we’d better start praying to the One-God to listen and do something,” Altan said. “I appreciate the honesty, Halim. Thanks for your work here.”