“You have no idea of my nightmares,” Rhillian said quietly. “I see the war reaching Saalshen. I see a slaughter for which none of my tongues have yet devised words to describe.”
“Perhaps you try for too much,” Sasha pleaded. “If you support Maerler now, Steiner may feel he has no choice but to attack. Perhaps some of the dukes will follow him. By forcing the battle, you could destroy one or the other and force a final solution. The balance of power would end, and that would be a tragedy for Saalshen.”
“And if I do nothing, Maerler may back down and Steiner may win, and the Army of Torovan marches to slaughter my people. Are you saying that is now unavoidable?”
Sasha hung her head. “I don't know. Maybe. We tried, Rhillian. But already the balance has shifted too far with the archbishop choosing his side.”
“Perhaps he has not.” Rhillian's voice was calm now. Distant as she contemplated the horizon and the rigging of moored ships. “The priesthood has just now seen one rebellion. Perhaps there will be others.”
Sasha gazed at her with dawning dread. “Rhillian,” she said softly. “Please don't do anything you might regret.”
“There is nothing in this life,” said Rhillian, “that I may choose to do that I might not possibly regret.” She sipped at her soup and glanced sideways at Sasha, the slant of a lovely eyebrow beneath her hat. “Have you bedded with Errollyn yet?”
Sasha blinked at her, caught completely off guard. “Bedded?”
“A strange concept, I know. It happens sometimes between men and women. Surely it never crossed your mind.”
Sasha took a deep breath and straightened, seeking dignity. “I've been rather busy.”
“I wouldn't have thought it would take a whole afternoon.” Rhillian's humour, like her stare, and her swordwork, was utterly merciless. “He insists it was his conscience that led him in this direction. I think perhaps it was his groin.”
Sasha snorted, trying hard not to blush. She was not often prone to embarrassment. “Like I'm such a catch,” she murmured. Rhillian grinned, then nearly laughed outright. Sasha scowled at her. “What?”
“You think yourself unattractive?” Rhillian's entire manner had changed. Now, her eyes shone with fascination. Spirits she was beautiful. Beside her, Sasha felt like a mule beside a purebred desai mare.
“No,” Sasha retorted defensively. “I'm just…different. Like always.”
“To a serrin, there are few combinations more intriguing than dark hair and dark eyes. There is subtlety, you see.” She peered at Sasha's face, searchingly. “You see, the shading, so faint, so varied.” She made a form with one hand, fingers shifting. “Serrin colours are so obvious, so bright…the shades of human form are such res'ahl en, the mystery of the than'ath rheel darkness, that shapes the ash'laan of…”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Sasha said in Lenay. “I'm lost. Stop. I make it policy never to talk arts with serrin, especially not in Saalsi. My head will burst.”
“Really?” said Rhillian, now back in Torovan, all bemused innocence. “I wasn't even speaking dialect.”
“And of course you're terrible with languages,” Sasha added, exasperated.
“Absolutely awful.” It was an old joke. And by serrin standards, not so untrue. “Sasha, every serrin man I've heard remark on the issue thinks you're gorgeous. I'd be absolutely astonished if Errollyn felt differently.”
“And you serrin spend lots of time sitting around talking about whom you'd like to bed?” Sasha asked incredulously.
“Every spare moment. Sasha.” Rhillian straightened and looked her very firmly in the eye. “As your friend. You live a very dangerous life. I'm delighted that you've survived this far. Time may be short for all of us. Take the man to bed. I assure you, it's worth the effort.”
Sasha stared a moment longer. And her mouth dropped open as she realised the implication. “You…you mean…you and Errollyn have…?”
Rhillian outright laughed, a pleasant, warm sound. “Oh, and that surprises you? We're serrin! We have no morals, Sasha, and when we die, we're all going straight to the hells!” Sasha wanted to reprimand her that she really shouldn't joke about such things, but her mouth would not cooperate. “I have thirty-eight summers, Sasha, I've bedded rather a lot of men. I recommend it. Errollyn in particular.”
“But you hate each other!” Sasha burst out.
Rhillian laughed again…and nearly lost control of her bowl of soup. She saved it just in time. “Oh no,” she sighed. “Not at all. I…look,” and she held up her free hand helplessly, “I can't explain it, it's just a serrin thing. I don't hate Errollyn. I'll never hate Errollyn.”
“Because he's serrin?”
“No, that would be prejudice, you shan't trap me that easily.” Very amused. “Are you really sure you want to go down this path with me? We could be here until sundown.”
“No, right, forget it,” Sasha said sarcastically. “Sanity before curiosity.”
“Just trust me. On serrin matters at least, I'm quite sure I know what I'm talking about. I hope I haven't made you jealous. I'm quite certain I don't intend to marry him.”
Sasha saw the amusement on Rhillian's face at that prospect. She had to laugh. “No. Bloody hells. It just seems that everyone's having sex except me.”
“And who's fault is that?” Rhillian retorted expansively. “Take the man to bed, Sasha!”
Sasha sighed in disbelief and shook her head. She didn't know what she felt, or whether she'd take the advice. Everything was so complicated. She envied the serrin. In some things, they were endlessly complicated. But in others, the simple pleasures, they were so attractively simple.
“You know,” she said, “I once thought Errollyn was the strangest serrin I'd ever met. But now I think it's probably you.”
Rhillian smiled, not at all offended. “Well, you're easily the strangest human I've ever met,” she returned playfully. “I suppose we're even.”
The fields beside the road into Algery were barren after the harvest, and men pulled ploughs behind teams of oxen to loosen the soil. The cart rattled over pavings, here on the gentle downslope into town.
Jaryd sat behind the driver's board in the covered cart, and peered past Teriyan and Sofy's shoulders. The road was so familiar. Ahead, past rows of fruit trees, the winding Hathys River ran between walled banks before the city. A stone bridge crossed where the river met the road.
Along the riverbank, Algery rose in a swarm of stone buildings, haphazard tiled roofs and narrow alleys. A great arch at the end of the bridge marked the entrance to the city, whereafter the road vanished beneath the roofs. He knew, however, that it headed toward the grand temple spires that soared from the city's heart. Beyond and to either side of the city rose the enclosing hills of the Algery Valley. Downstream, another quarter-day's ride, lay Pyrlata, and the Nyvar residence…now the property of Family Arastyn.
“Oh, it's so pretty!” Sofy opined, predictably. Tyree's capital did look pretty, Jaryd had to concede, however poor his mood for noticing such things. It helped that the sun was shining, the sky blue streaked with white, and the green orchards made lovely patterns in the midafternoon light against the rowed poplars and pines. “Here, what's this building?”
Jaryd saw where she was pointing, to a small domed roof on the riverbank, upstream of the bridge. “That's the skywatcher. Dastry Urelvyn built it. He was the father of Lord Urelvyn. He was Verenthane, but followed the old astrology; he built the dome to watch the skies at night. He had the star charts painted all across the ceiling and watched through his windows as they moved.”
As the road wound down to the bridge, traffic passed them on the way up. Sofy made no effort to conceal herself as carts passed, or farmers walked the roadside tending to orchards. A Goeren-yai farm driver, his daughter and a nephew on their way into town two days before a big wedding attracted little attention, and very few people this far from Baen-Tar had any idea what the Lenay royal family actually looked like. Sofy had seen some of the likenesses which sold in town squares on market day and laughed. Dressed in plain travelling clothes with a cloth tied over her hair she was in little danger of being taken for a princess.
“Oh I wish I'd found more time to travel,” Sofy said wistfully as they approached the bridge. “Only now that I'm about to leave Lenayin forever do I have a chance to see what my land actually looks like.”
“This is just a city,” said Teriyan, unimpressed. He did not look particularly comfortable on the driving board, his long knees sticking out, his hands grasping the unfamiliar reins. “Your actual land looks somewhat different.”
“Oh tosh,” Sofy snorted. “I've seen plenty of beautiful land lately, now it's time to see a city. You know what I mean.”
Teriyan had tied his hair back in a knot in the style of the eastern Goeren-yai of Tyree. Long red hair was common enough, but there was still a chance of recognition-many men of Tyree had ridden to the Udalyn Valley, although fewer from the cities and towns. There was always a chance of coming across a recent comrade-in-arms, particularly amidst the crowds that promised in Algery.
Encounters with travellers on the road had informed them of the wedding in Algery, on exactly the day that Aeryl Daery had said. Galandry No-Name, once Nyvar, was to be wed to Family Iryani, close allies of Family Arastyn. It was the last, loose end of the Nyvar Family, the elder sister Dalya already wed, and the brother Wyndal adopted into Family Arastyn itself. And it was the best chance for access to Wyndal, in a big crowd for a big occasion, away from the private defences of the Arastyn Residence, aware of threats upon their house. Whether Wyndal would cooperate or not was another question entirely.
They rattled across the bridge, beneath the arch and into Algery with a loud clatter of hooves and rattling wheels. The road was busy with people, and colourful flags hung from windows above the way. People were carrying baskets of vegetables, rolling barrels of ale, or hauling legs of lamb or pork.
After slow going on the crowded road, they emerged into the square opposite the temple. Jaryd stared, suppressing a shiver. He recalled the services, walking at his father's side up the broad steps behind the priests. He'd liked the dressing up and the showing off. The services had been a bore, but he'd liked feeling important. Like a fool, he'd believed it his gods-given entitlement.
Now, the top step about the temple door was decorated with a small pavilion, garnished with blue ralama flowers and green poplar boughs. Flags and colours hung about the square-the colours of Arastyn House, red and blue, in four opposing squares…and the other, green and white, he supposed must be Iryani. Truthfully, he'd never cared enough to recall.
He gave Teriyan directions around the square's central fountain, into a narrower street. Near the opposite side of the city (for Algery was not large like Baen-Tar) they found the inn they were looking for and pulled the horses up outside.