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
Page 25
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 children; 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 un-fought, 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
"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
Page 25
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 children; 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 un-fought, 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
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