Misery's Child (The Cadian Chronicles) (10 page)

The glance that
passed between Rowle and his wife was not lost on Bastrop of Tira.

“Now, Paul,” Rowle
spoke up, “that’s not exactly what I said.”

“Oh, I know,” the
boy said calmly. “You said perhaps I could go.
If Lillitha is
chosen.
But she will be chosen, so I am going.”

“Don’t go grinding
your grain before the seeds are even sown,” Ersala said, rising to clear the
pots and troughs from the table.

“And how are you
so certain,
callae
Paul?” Bastrop couldn’t resist
asking with a twinkle in his eyes. “Mayhaps you are a little
tadomani
yourself?”

Marta giggled. “He
may be a little
tadosuni
,
but not
tadomani
.”

Marta’s wordplay
drew a smile from her father while her mother frowned.
Tadomani
was the high Shallanie word for “touched by
Oman”—meaning blessed with the Sight or empathic abilities.
Tadosuni
,
however, translated to “touched by the sun,” implying that Paul had been out in
the hot sun too long.

Paul showed no
signs of being the slightest bit put out by his second sister’s dig. He had
learned long ago to ignore her.

“I’m neither
tadomani or
tadosuni
.” Paul spoke with such dignity
that Bastrop hid his smile with his hand. The boy beamed at his older sister
with unadulterated devotion, causing her to blush a deep crimson. “I know
Lillitha will be chosen. There couldn’t possibly be a prettier or sweeter
consecratia in all the twelve tribes. And certainly not a better sister in this
room.”

“You’re a dolt,”
Marta simpered.

“And you’re a
ninny—”

“Am not!”

“Are too—”

“Hush, both of
you, this minute!” Ersala barked. “Marta, take these dishes in to Tesla. Paul,
bid the lord general goodnight and check the horses before you go to bed.”

Finally the table
was cleared and Rowle found himself alone with his friend. He went to the
sideboard and pulled out the bottle of wine he kept there for guests.

“You’ve a fine
family, Rowle,” Bastrop said as he held out his cup. “You should be proud of
how you’ve held it all together. Oman be praised, I know it hasn’t been easy
for you.”

“Oh, I’ve been
luckier than some,” Rowle said with a wry smile. “Lucky to have such a wife at
my side. Be careful of the wine. It’s homemade and has quite a bite until you
get used to it.”

While he
knew
he need not apologize
to
Bastrop, Rowle still wished he had something better to offer him than this
bitter wine.

The old soldier
made a face and laughed, slapping the table. “Whew, reminds of the stuff we
used to sneak into our flasks on patrol! What was the name of that tavern in
Gregorta? The one with the pretty serving wench who always flirted with you?”

“I don’t think it
even had a name. A fouler hole I pray I never set foot in!”

“Aye, but she was
pretty, wasn’t she?”

“Yes, she was.”
Rowle took a draft of wine and sighed. “I think of the boys we used to be and I
shudder for my own daughters! Is that the curse of old age, do you think?”

“Mayhaps my
friend! By the beard, when I finally married off my youngest I heaved a sigh of
relief that could be heard on the other side of the Shumdan Mountains!” Bastrop
laughed, settling back in his chair and stretching out his booted legs. “Five
daughters, Mother Leah! Don’t talk to me of curses!”

“Trust my word,
old friend. Boys are no easier.”

Bastrop’s face
crinkled in concern and he reached out to grasp Rowle’s shoulder. “Tis a pity
about Jonil. You had such hopes for him.”

“My wife still
weeps for him.”

“And you?”

“I have no tears
left.” Rowle drained his cup and reached for the bottle again. “But let us not
waste wine and breath on the dead. It’s the living I worry about now.”

Bastrop nodded
companionably. “Lillitha has grown into quite a beauty. Paul may be right.”

“Paul thinks his
first sister hung the moons and stars. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think so
too. I sometimes wonder if Oman in His mercy gave me Lillitha to make up for
Jonil. But they say that looks and temperament don’t count for everything. At
least, that’s what Cadia Yanna tells me.”

“Ah, Cadia Yanna;
now that’s a formidable woman! The black robes, though, they puzzle me. You
don’t see many of those.”

“Really? I assumed
they must have changed their fashions.”

“The cadia? Bah,
they haven’t changed in four hundred summers. Good women, but secretive. I’ve
spent fifteen summers on the Isle and I still don’t understand their chain of
command. Of course, you don’t see many of them out here, so you wouldn’t know,
would you? I’ve spent so much time on Omana Teret it seems a shock to see so
many women’s bare heads!”

Unlike Rowle, who
returned home after his required service in the Third Arm of the Legion,
Bastrop had stayed. There was nothing for him in Tira. Bastrop was third born
and his two older brothers had already sired a dozens sons between them, making
it unlikely that Bastrop would ever become vidor. So he’d made a career for
himself in the military and finally won a coveted posting to the Isle of Omana
Teret—”the seat of Oman on earth.” Lord General Bastrop was the most
important military commander in the realm, chief of the First Arm Guardians and
advisor to Shallan Varden.

“So how is it you
are so far from your duties? I heard the Shallan
cannot
sleep without knowing you guard his palace.”

“Aye, you cheeky
bastid, do you mock the great Keeper of the Isle
?!
”
Bastrop threw back his head and roared. “The old man is too deep in his own
troubles to care whether I am there in the flesh or not. As to the purpose of
my travels, let’s just say I needed a breather from the smell of incense.”

“The shallan is
not well, then?” Rowle was surprised at the fear that tapped at his heart. “The
rumors are true?”

“Which rumors?
Shallan Varden has already seen one hundred and four summers. Even for a member
of the Shallani tribe, where it is not unheard of to live past one hundred and
twenty
summers, that
is old. Shallana Anthely, bless
the poor thing, has yet to bring forth a living child and wagers are even on
which of them is more distraught.”

“She has another
summer. There might yet be a child.”

“You are more
optimistic than the bene priests or the cadialana.
Or most of
the peasants, for that matter.
This is in strictest confidence, you
understand. Varden would see me staked if he suspected I discussed his business
with someone outside the Isle.”

“Then perhaps we
shouldn’t—I did not mean to pry.”

“Bah, I know that!
I trust you above any man who walks the realm. Perhaps I am exaggerating a bit.
You spend enough time in the palace walls, you tend to get melodramatic.”

It had occurred to
Bastrop, belatedly, that it was cruel to burden his friend with his own worries
and complaints. After all, his daughter was consecratia, was she not? But
Oman’s beard, he was sick of it!
Sick of the whispers, sick
of the pinched faces that turned away whenever the poor shallana passed by.
Sick of that bastid Paglia, the chancellor of Omana Teret who grinned like a
monkey and controlled more of the court with every passing day.

And he was sick of
Varden, blasphemy though it might be. Pious devotion was difficult when you
regularly stood shoulder to shoulder with the man who ruled in Oman’s name. And
it was almost impossible when day after day you were forced to stare at the
bristles growing from his ears and nose.

“Shallana
Anthely,” Rowle asked, “she is well, aside from having no child?”

“Be peaceful, old
friend. I know you worry for Lillitha’s fate. But the shallana
breda
is well provided for. Anthely has become quite an
accomplished artist, which I am told was always a dream of hers. She as happy
as any woman without a child can be, shallana or not.”

“Do you suppose
the rumors are true, then? That the fault lies not with the shallana but with
Varden?”

Bastrop rubbed his
eyes. Of course, the rumors were true. In seventy summers, Varden had sired
sixteen daughters, only three of whom survived infancy. One of them had died of
the fever before her twelfth summer, another had died in a strange riding
accident and the last was, frankly, dim-witted. Two sons—only two
!—
were stillborn, one of them malformed. But even this
was not well known. The priests carefully fed the populace such news as they
saw fit. As far as anyone outside the bene, the council and the cadialana knew,
the sixteen daughters had all survived and been consecrated to the cadia. They
could not hide the stillbirth of the two boys, but not a whisper of the
deformities had been allowed to circulate.

He could not lie
to Rowle, so he hid behind the same words the priests mouthed time and time
again.

“Oman’s will is a
mysterious thing. He will choose His time and His bride, and no amount of
gossip or speculation will hurry Him.”

“You are right, of
course.”

Rowle reached for
the wine, but Bastrop stopped him with a gesture. He did not want to drain his
friend’s meager provisions.

“No more, I’ll
need a clear head tomorrow if I hope to cover enough ground,” Bastrop smiled
wryly. “I think I’m still a young man until I’ve spent a day in the saddle.”

“Aye, I know that
feeling! You didn’t tell me why you ride for Jeptalla. To see Tullus, I
presume?”

“Certainly. I
never had a chance to pay my respects when Alaida died and I thought to try my
hand at a bit of matchmaking while I’m there.”

“You’re turning
into an old woman, Bastrop! Matchmaking between
who
?
You’ve married off all your daughters or had you forgotten?”

“Beneficent Oman,
no! I get down on my knees every
sunfall
and offer
thanks to Mother Leah that my own are properly wed! No, I have a niece—my
widowed sister’s child,
Toyva
—who will be of
age soon. I would be happy to see her joined with Tullus’ boy, Scearce. But
don’t fret, when Paul is of age I’m sure I’ll have another niece to recommend.”

“I’m sure you
will.” Rowle fell silent. He couldn’t help wondering if Bastrop’s sister would
appreciate having any of her daughters offered to a penny-less
vidor
.

“All right,” Bastrop growled, waving his cup toward
his host. “One more before bed. I lift my cup to your lovely daughter,
Lillitha. May Oman’s peace be with her, wherever her path may lead.
”

Chapter 6: Scearce

Excerpt from
The
Histories of the Realm
by Cadia Kesava:

Scearce
has long been a dark figure in the history of
tey Mysirrati.
Little fact is recorded of him. The only surviving
son of King Tullus of Jeptalla, we know he was born in the Harvest season of
the 131st Coming of the Warrior, and that he first met Lillitha of Kirrisian in
childhood. They met again as adults on the Pilgrimage of the Single Moon in the
150th Coming of the Bear, before her consecration as shallana
breda
. Of the nineteen years in between these events, we
know little. His few contemporaries, being of Jeptallan origin, chose to keep
silent to any and all outsiders, especially the cadia. Attempts to learn more
about the father of Leah Orenda have met with ill-concealed hostility.

The
attitude of the Jeptallans should come as no surprise to students of that land.
Jeptalla occupies a rocky peninsula situated on the far southeastern shore of
the Omani Realm. Geography, history and culture have kept its people isolated
to a far greater degree than any other allied province. Geographically, the
Calla Sea and Gezana Bay separate Jeptalla from all but the sparsely populated
southern borders of Kirrisian. The other eleven Omani tribes share common
ancestors who migrated south from the northern lands, while the Jeptallan claim
to be descendants of ancient settlers from the Kei Isles. They are believed to
have first set foot on the continent some seven hundred years before the
earliest recorded history of even the oldest of the Omani tribes, the
Shallanie.

Some
historians, most notably Cadia
Junisperi
[see
Origins of the Omani and Its Ramifications
on Contemporary History
], have theorized that only Jeptalla could have
produced a man such as Scearce, just as only Jeptalla could have sheltered a
renegade shallana breda and her lover for as long as it did.

Tullus’ Seat was
located in the southernmost tip of the country on a tiny peninsula. To reach
it, it was necessary to traverse the whole of Jeptalla; luckily for Bastrop,
this meant crossing the shallow depth of the country and not the much wider
expanse that stretched southeast and northwest.