His Own Good Sword (The Cymeriad #1) (32 page)

“I’ve heard nothing except that Muryn’s dead.”

“The new garrison commander intends to make an example of
us—intends no other of the mountain tribes will ever again
think to rise up as we did. They’re destroying the crops,
burning the homes, salting the fields of all those they suppose are
supporters of rebellion, whether they’ve the evidence of it or
not. I came north to find grain among the other tribes because what
remains of our own crop won’t last us the winter.”
Magryn’s mouth tightened. “Those who wish to secure their
own safety are betraying others to the garrison without cause,
thinking to gain favor that way. If I thought it would end it—I’d
give myself up to the Vareni, if I thought that would end it. But
I’ve no reason to hope for that.”

Tyren said nothing.

Magryn spoke in a slow, solemn voice, as if the words had been
painstakingly chosen and rehearsed.

“I brought this on them, Lord Risto. You were willing to show
my people justice, and the absence of it, now, is the consequence of
my doing, not yours—my doing and Mægo’s. So I’m
not convinced I should kill you.”

Tyren said, “It would gratify your men, at least.”

“Morlyn, for one, asked me to spare your life.”

“Did he so?”

Magryn was silent a moment. “Tell me why you came to the
Outland, Lord Risto,” he said.

He’d been determined to keep the thing from Morlyn, to keep it
stored up someplace deep and dark inside him for a reason he didn’t
even know—that same old stubborn Vareno pride, maybe; or maybe
it was the fear he couldn’t explain it sufficiently, or that it
wouldn’t be rightly understood. He hadn’t tried putting
it all into words yet, even for himself. But all at once there was
the desperate need to do it, to explain it to someone before it was
lost, to let it all out, and he did so, stumblingly, brokenly, not
caring it was almost a babble.

“I’d thought—in Souvin—I’d finally
convinced myself I’d fought for something worthy—that the
Empire could be something worthy, something great. Muryn had
convinced me of it. And they killed him. For no reason. Not that he
was dangerous, that he preached uprising against us. Only that they
knew I’d try to prevent it, and they could prove my disloyalty
if I did. It was something to tarnish the Risto name, to cost us face
in Choiro. Politics, nothing more. That was what I spilled blood for
at Souvin.”

Magryn said, quietly, “You wanted justice in the Empire’s
name, and the Empire has branded you a traitor for it.”

“Because they’ve use for me as a traitor. That’s
all that matters. I should have realized it sooner. I wish to God I’d
realized it sooner, before I’d blood on my hands for it.”

“Will you not find sanctuary even at home? What of your father?
He’s a powerful man.”

He thought of Vessy. He could see the city in his mind: the villa at
the top of the hill, and the lake below, and the ships at their
mooring stones, and thatch-roofed huts of the fishermen scattered all
across the black shore. He thought of the way he’d ridden there
from Choiro three months ago, remembered how he’d dreaded that
homecoming, dashed it to pieces and then run from it all the way to
Souvin, like a fool. If only he’d known, then. If only he could
change it now—go back and change all of it, so that Souvin
wouldn’t happen, so that Muryn would live, so that Torien
wouldn’t be dead in the mud on the road to Rien, or Senna at
the hands of the Guard in Choiro. But there was no use in regret.

Aloud, he said, “My father is dead.” The words were as
much for himself as for Magryn, the realness of it and the weight of
it closing like an iron collar round his heart as he spoke. “They
told me in Rien. He’d have tried to appeal for my release, and
that would have meant political ruin for the family—the loss of
the governorship, at least.” That sudden clarity was painful as
a knife-blade twisting in his gut. He’d been a fool to think
Torien would ransom him merely for the sake of the Risto name. Far
better for the Risto name had Torien left him to the court martial,
left him to execution in Choiro, demonstrated his own loyalty by
virtue of his silence—Torien would have known that well enough.
It wasn’t the name that mattered. It had never been the name
that mattered. In that understanding Tyren stumbled over his words,
his voice raw, throat aching. “So my brother had him killed.
Before he might do such dishonor as to save my life.”

“Your brother holds the governorship, then.”

“Yes.”

Magryn nodded. He moved the pack from his lap so he could stand. He
slung it over his right shoulder when he’d gotten to his feet.
“So Vessy’s shut to you, and you’ve run to the
mountains. What’s your intention now?”

Tyren shook his head. There was an emptiness inside him, now the
thing was let out—emptiness and bitter, bone-deep exhaustion.
“I don’t know.”

“Are there no others in the Empire willing to help you?”

“There are some in the army who were loyal to my father. But to
contact them is to put them at risk—and that’s if they’re
willing to help me in the first place.”

“Come south with us, then,” said Magryn.

Tyren looked up to him, quickly.

Magryn said, “Morlyn tells me he can mend that wound for you,
and you need to move from this place urgently as we do. There are too
many of your people about. Come with us and let Morlyn do his work,
at least until the searching’s died down. Make your decision
then.”

There was silence between them a little while, broken only by the
harsh whistle of wind through the hut’s open doorway and the
smatterings of bird song from the pine trees below the hilltop. The
refusal had formed at once in his head out of habit, out of pride;
pride would have him refuse it even knowing he didn’t stand a
chance on his own, with this wound, with pursuit closing round him.
But it stuck in his throat when he started to speak. He couldn’t
get the words out, and he didn’t know if it were that he was
finally and completely broken, lost, or if it were a victory of
sorts. He didn’t know anymore. But he pushed the pride away and
the words tumbled out freely, almost inadvertently.

“I’ll come,” he said.

The others had already gone from the beacon room when he went with
Magryn outside. He followed Magryn down the steps, down from the
hilltop into the cover of the trees. After a while they left the
steps and turned south to go through the pine forest. Morlyn fell in
quietly beside them. If he were surprised at Tyren’s presence
he didn’t show it. His face was blank. He spoke to Magryn in
Cesino.

“They’ll reach this place in two hours, Lord Magryn,
coming from the north.”

“Will it be time enough to cover our tracks?”

“It’ll be time enough, my lord.”

Bryn and the other man, Ceryn, were waiting with the horses at the
southward foot of the hill. There were five horses, the colt among
them, still with his Guard trappings and Aino’s sword strapped
to the saddle. Magryn went ahead to put his pack across the saddle of
a tall bay horse. When he was done he took the reins of the bay in
his left hand, the colt’s reins in his right. He brought the
colt wordlessly over to Tyren. Tyren took the reins from him, ran a
hand over the colt’s sleek black neck. A sudden wave of relief
washed over him. At least he had the colt—the colt, and the
sword, and time enough now to figure out his road.

Magryn mounted, and Bryn and Ceryn mounted their own horses after
him. Tyren clenched his teeth and pulled himself up into the colt’s
saddle. They fell into single file: Bryn at the head of the line,
Ceryn behind him, leading Morlyn’s horse; Magryn and Tyren
next, and Morlyn on foot bringing up the rear, covering the tracks as
they went.

They went south through the pine wood, leaving the beacon hill behind
them.

A Note on Pronunciation

In Vareno,
a
is pronounced as in the English ‘father.’
E
is short, as in the English ‘pen,’ except when
it appears at the end of the word; it then makes the English long ‘a’
sound (there are no silent letters in Vareno;
e
is sounded out
in words like
Vione
and
Sarre
). The
i
sound is
the English long ‘e,’ except when followed directly by
double consonants; in
Risto
, for example, the
i
makes
the short sound—English ‘pit.’
Y
makes the
English long ‘e’ sound when followed by another vowel
(
Tyren
) but otherwise (
Magryn
) makes the short ‘i’
sound.

Æ
, as in
Chælor
or
Mægo
, makes
the long ‘a’ sound.
C
, as in
Cesin
or
Carent
, produces the English ‘ch’ sound
(‘church’), while
ch
—
Chæla
,
Choiro
—produces the English ‘k’ sound.

About the Author

Amanda McCrina lives in Atlanta, Georgia and is currently pursuing
her undergraduate degree in history and political science at the
University of West Georgia. She also studied for two years at Geneva
College, outside Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, and for one semester in
Rome, Italy. She has a particular interest in twentieth-century
warfare and Roman military history.

Other interests include film, coffee, graphic design, ice hockey, and
Star Wars.

Links

amandamccrina.com
facebook.com/amandamccrina
twitter.com/9inchsnails