Sidesaddle, Sofy decided, was not merely ludicrous but dangerous. Several times when her mare lurched unexpectedly, she thought she might topple. She would have felt so much safer on her little Dary, but the travelling court had been scandalised enough that she would wish to ride on horseback to greet her sister Sasha, and to have the princess regent riding on a scruffy little Lenay dussieh would have been too much to ask.
She sat instead upon an elegant white mare lent to her for the occasion, alongside her husband on a tall black stallion. About them rode knights in full armour, and lords in less taxing mail and formalwear. The banners of the regency swung in the midmorning sun. They numbered nearly a hundred strong, with servants and squires, heralds and scouts. The Army of Larosa, and the Army of Lenayin, marched on parallel paths, not more than a quarter-day’s ride apart, to save the roads from churning to muddy bogs beneath many thousands of boots, hooves and wagon wheels in the late-spring rains.
Balthaar seemed in good humour, laughing with his lords and knights, and admiring the sunny morning. He complimented Sofy often on how lovely she looked, and how well she rode, and missed no opportunity to reach for her hand and exchange a smile. Sofy did not know what she felt. She tried simply to ride, and enjoy the freedom away from the royal procession at the Larosan Army’s head, and to appreciate the morning as her husband did.
Soon enough, the Larosan party arrived at the head of the great Lenay column, and Sofy exchanged greetings all over again with her father and brothers, while insisting that the army should not stop simply to observe the formality. All seemed very subdued, and her father in particular, deadly grim. That was no surprise, King Torvaal Lenayin was usually grim. And it had only been a week since leaving Sherdaine, so the sight of her was no great astonishment to any. But Sofy gained the distinct impression that something was very wrong, and no one wanted to be the one to tell her. Was it Sasha, she suddenly feared?
She left most of the Larosan contingent with the Lenay vanguard, and rode with a small party of knights in single file along the roadside. The Isfayen rode forth in the column, and it took some time to reach them. Lenay warriors cheered as she passed, and she waved, smiling, and trying to be happier than she felt. It was all confusing. She wanted to see Sasha again so badly. Sasha had that way of making things clear and simple to her.
When she reached the Isfayen place in the Lenay column, her first sight was of Yasmyn, riding at her father the Great Lord Faras’s side. The two of them talked and laughed, and Yasmyn’s eyes shone with happiness. Sofy wondered what it would be like, to share a relationship like that with her own father. Sasha rode at Yasmyn’s side, evidently expecting Sofy’s arrival. Upon seeing her, Sasha rode forward, and dismounted. Sofy did likewise, and embraced her tearfully. She could not hug hard, for her brothers had told her of Sasha’s injuries. She could not hug long, either, for the column marched on, oblivious to the concerns of sisters who had not seen each other in far too long, and wanted only a moment’s pause to catch up. It felt awkward, and not at all the heartfelt reunion Sofy had dreamed of. When they parted, Sasha seemed reluctant to meet her eyes.
“Sasha, what’s wrong?” Sofy asked, wiping tears from her cheeks. Sasha’s eyes were dry. Somehow, that disappointed her.
“Did they tell you?” Sasha asked quietly. “About Alythia?”
“No.” And with growing alarm, #x201C;Sasha, what about Alythia?”
Sasha made a muttered curse, and stared off across neighbouring woods. “She’s dead, Sofy. The great Tracatan enlightenment killed her.”
Sasha and Sofy rode and talked together at the Isfayen contingent’s head for a long time. Sasha insisted that Sofy tell of her adventures first, from her ride to Baerlyn to assist in the revenge of Jaryd Nyvar, to the assembly of the army, and the subsequent ride to Larosa, and the wedding to follow. Sofy found it difficult to talk, so soon after learning Alythia’s fate, yet she tried, and was not interrupted by floods of tears too frequently.
Sasha then told her own tale, and Sofy listened with mixed horror and concern to hear of Sasha’s trials in Petrodor, and the War of the King, and her most recent horrors in Tracato. Sasha’s tone was flat, lacking its usual expression. She skipped details, and did not embellish as she usually would. Sofy had always loved to hear Sasha’s tales before, as her eyes would come alive with boisterous enthusiasm and carry her listeners along with the tale. Now, the words seemed as dry as Sasha’s eyes, and her telling did not invite any response. Sofy tried interrupting, seeking further detail that might shed more light on what she suspected Sasha of hiding, but there was no joy in the discovery. When Sasha reached Alythia’s death, she skipped very quickly to the end, and waited for Sofy’s latest tears to end.
Sasha took Sofy’s hand, and her grip at least was firm. “How’s Balthaar?” she asked.
“Well,” said Sofy, and paused to find a stronger voice. “He’s hopelessly in love, Sasha.” She managed a weak smile at her sister. Sasha just studied her, curiously. “It’s rather sweet, actually. He’s such a model of Larosan nobility. He’s very refined, very educated, quite arrogant yet not at all mean…. I had not thought that such a man could fall in love with a girl like me. And a Lenay savage at that. Although I think for him that is a part of the attraction, he’s fascinated that such a savage culture could produce someone like me.”
“Are you happy?”
“Happy?” Sofy stared at her. Something about the question, so bluntly put, made her anxious. “I’m not sure what happy has to do with anything.”
Sasha seemed as though more impressed with the answer than she’d expected. She rode very upright, Sofy noted, shoulders back, with none of her usual ease. Surely her wounds hurt her. “Do you love him?” Sasha asked.
Sofy shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Then you don’t love him.”
Sofy opened her mouth to protest, but realised that Sasha’s conclusion was obvious. “I barely know him,” she said instead.
“But he’s good in bed,” Sasha persisted. Sofy frowned at her. “And tall and handsome. I hear the talk.”
“He is very tall and handsome,” Sofy agreed, still frowning. “But I’m not a naive little girl any more, Sasha. Tall and handsome is not why I married him.”
“Do you hate him then?”
“Hate him? Why…” She shook her head, flustered. “Sasha, why are you saying these things? It sounds like you’re accusing me of something.”
“I hear you’ve been helpful,” Sasha said flatly. “Helping the lords with their squabbles. Diplomacy was always your strong point.”
“I am the princess regent now,” Sofy retorted. “Such things are my responsibility.”
“Your responsibility to help the Larosa murder half-caste serrin and invade Saalshen?”
Sofy stared at her, disbelievingly. Anger followed. “And you’re here too! What does that make you, that you now ride against the armies of the Saalshen Bacosh?”
“A fool,” Sasha said bitterly. “A fool, but not a traitor.”
“And I am?”
“No, Sofy. Just a fool, like me. We’re all fools.”
They rode together in silence, amidst the great creak and sway of saddles and hooves. Peasants gathered on the hillside near their village, in huddled brown cloth, and stared fearfully at the passing army. Sofy swallowed her emotion.
“I don’t know what you want of me, Sasha,” Sofy said quietly. “I do the best I can for my people, as you do. My new family is not evil, they are just people, neither more perfect nor more flawed than most. I feel that perhaps I can do some good here. I’m good at diplomacy, as you say. Perhaps I can…perhaps I can moderate, or attempt to talk some reason to those who would not otherwise…”
“If they win,” Sasha said bleakly, “they’ll slaughter everyone. Serrin and half-castes they’ll torture first. Artists, craftsmen, philosophers, all these people are dangerous because they have dangerous ideas, they’ll be killed first. You can’t reason with it, Sofy, because reason is not at issue. Reason is never at issue. In that, Rhillian was right. Only blood will stop it, one way or the other.”
It was too much. Sofy felt her composure slipping, the tears resuming once more. “What would you have me do?”
“There’s nothing any of us can do. Serve the path of honour: family, nation, faith. When all’s said and done, it’s all any of us have.”
“And what about right and wrong?”
“A luxury I once believed in.” Sasha’s eyes were distant. “A fool’s dream. No more.”
In the early afternoon, word spread down the column that the city of Nithele lay ahead, and there a council of war would be held between the Bacosh and Lenay armies. The Isfayen lords, Sasha, Sofy and Yasmyn all rode forward to arrive at the city in good time.
Nithele was a great walled city on the fork of land between two joining rivers. The Isfayen party halted along one riverbank, and now observed the high city walls. Many small boats sat on the bank, and cityfolk walked there, to gawp at the Army of Lenayin, or to throw nets, or to gather driftwood. Planks made a path on the bank to form a low wharf. Men, bare feet slipping, pants rolled to their knees, carried cargo from riverboats dragged bow-first onto the grass.
“How do men live in such places?” Great Lord Faras wondered darkly, observing the stark walls. The red cloth about his brow denoted him as a bloodwarrior, a sacred title in Isfayen, marked by many trials of manhood, and codes of conduct rigorous even by Lenay standards.
“The lowlanders like stone,” his daughter observed. “They live in stone cages, and fear the sky.”
“Do men live as this in the Saalshen Bacosh?” Faras asked Sasha.
“No,” she said. “Their cities are open. They have no internal enemies, and the Steel have not lost a battle in two hundred years, so they do not need these great walls.”
“Never trust a man with no enemies,” said Yasmyn, as they dismounted. Ahead, on the opposite side of the river from the looming Nithele walls, sat a small fishing village, with boats drawn up to the muddy riverbank. About it was a gathering of Lenay vanguard, with many banners and horses.
“The Saalshen Bacosh are surrounded by enemies,” Lord Faras countered his daughter. “Not only have they the mainland Bacosh, they had the Elissian Peninsula to their north, and made short work of them just now. The Steel have won so many glorious victories outnumbered and surrounded, I have no doubt we do not fight for the side of greater honour in this contest.”
The observation did not surprise Sasha. For the Isfayen, even more than in most of Lenayin, victory in battle brought honour, and honour was currency far richer than gold. When King Soros had liberated Lenayin from the Cherrovan a century before, the Isfayen had taken more convincing than most. Many Isfayen blood chiefs had challenged the new king to arms, and fought bloody battles against chieftains who converted to the new faith, be they Isfayen or from neighbouring Yethulyn or Neysh. Many Isfayen had never considered themselves to be Lenay at all, and had taken the liberation as an opportunity to fight for a separate kingdom…or indeed, for rulership of the greater Lenay kingdom. Thankfully, that prospect had so horrified the rest of Lenayin that they had banded together to ensure it never happened, and the resisting Isfayen chieftains had been crushed. That crushing had gained King Soros the respect of the rest, and Isfayen had submitted to rule from Baen-Tar, after the limited, uniquely Lenay fashion.
Yet the Isfayen had remained remote from the rest of Lenayin, their lands high, rugged and cold, their manners hostile, their justice crude. Even the Isfayen practice of the new faith was unique, a strange crossbreed of old traditions and new civilisation, their temples adorned with colours and flags, their holy stars inscribed with the spirit script of their ancient ways. And yet it was the faith, Kessligh had assured Sasha, that had brought the Isfayen into the Lenay fold to their current extent…which was not to say that they were brothers in the grand Lenay family, but merely that they did not kill the king’s taxmen on principle, or raid the neighbouring villages without at least a warning, or seek marriage with the daughter of prominent lords by galloping into town and throwing the girl over a saddlehorn. With the Isfayen, that was considered progress. Many in the priesthood had taken on the role of educators in wild Isfayen, and had thus attained an importance far beyond the worship of gods. Such men had brought the outside world to Isfayen, and given its inhabitants a reason to care about what lay beyond for the first time in their history.
The Great Lord Faras, Sasha well knew, was considered the best and brightest leader that Isfayen had ever had. Faras’s father had insisted he receive a Baen-Tar education, and now, the breeding showed. Faras had in turn insisted that his son Markan, and daughter Yasmyn, attend Baen-Tar, to learn the ways of the kulemran, or the “non-Isfayen.” That meant everyone from fellow Lenays to lowlanders to serrin. Now, Markan rode with the column, and was rumoured to have befriended Prince Damon, while Yasmyn had become the Princess Sofy’s closest confidante and protector. Many such ties were being forged on this ride, between leaders of lands with far longer history of mutual slaughter than friendship. Some of the credit for that lay with men like Lord Faras-a new kind of Lenay lord, educated and curious in a way that his predecessors had never been. And part of the credit, Sasha reluctantly conceded, lay with her big brother Koenyg. This had been his intention, to forge a nation on the road to war.
The hitch, of course, was that for it all to work, the army had to win.
Sasha stretched carefully as men dismounted. A galloping horse turned her head, knights moving to protect the dismounting princess regent as the new arrival came to a halt nearby. Jaryd Nyvar jumped from his horse and strode to Sasha, grinning ear to ear. He hugged her gently, having evidently heard to do that, and Sasha hugged him hard.
“The rabble have been giving you a hard time, huh?” Jaryd said affectionately.
“You’ve no idea,” said Sasha. She pulled back to look at him. “Is that a ring I see? Two rings?” She fingered the metal in his ear.
“What do you think?”
“I think your hair looks better longer.” Jaryd’s hair had grown long enough to have curls. “You’re nearly handsome now.”
Jaryd laughed. “No tattoos though. Not even for you, Sasha.”
“I’ve got one!” Sasha said brightly. “I got it in Petrodor, want to see?”
“Of course! I hope it’s somewhere exciting.”
“Just my arm, I’ll show you later. Still trying to get my clothes off, huh Jaryd?”
Jaryd put a hand to her face. “No offence, Sasha, but you look like you could use a good fuck.”
Sasha laughed outright, the first time she’d laughed since Tracato, and hugged him again. Spirits she was glad to see him. She hadn’t quite expected to be this glad. Seeing her siblings again was wonderful, but hard, too. She knew they did not blame her for Alythia’s death, but she felt responsible anyway. And Sofy was married, and Koenyg was on the warpath, and Damon was angry, and Myklas was…well, Myklas, and not someone with whom she could discuss anything important. Perhaps Jaryd had been the same once, but he’d changed. He knew loss and pain. He knew what it was to feel alone. And he was one of the few men in Rhodia who’d dare flirt with her so outrageously. She needed that.
“Well,” she said, “right now I’m covered in scabs and bruises.”
Jaryd made a face. “Some men are more easieterred than others.”
“You mean some men will fuck anything.”
Jaryd grinned, and gave her a kiss on the forehead that was far more brotherly than his banter would suggest.
About them, a camp of sorts was unfolding, as men at the head of the Lenay column sought the sheltered places to lay their gear. Most made do with a simple patch of ground, and set about making camp. Given that the Army of Lenayin marched without tents and slept on the open ground, that was a relatively simple affair of dumping gear and making a fire. Soon the firewood carts would come clattering, their men having spent the day’s march foraging for wood. The bedding cart would follow, with extra blankets for the footsoldiers with no horses to carry such heavy, unwieldy things.
Sasha, Sofy, Jaryd and Yasmyn walked with Great Lord Faras and the Isfayen lords through the gathering commotion of camp toward the fishing village. Here at the vanguard, tents were being erected, for royalty and lords. Already boats were crossing the river from the walls of Nithele, loaded with produce, and men who shouted to the soldiers ashore of things for sale. Sasha saw chickens held aloft, and fish, and baskets of eggs. Soldiers and merchants alike clustered toward the river.
Sofy walked further from Sasha, and talked with Yasmyn and Great Lord Faras. Jaryd noticed.
“She’s not talking to you either?” he asked wryly.
“We’ve each been in very different places,” Sasha explained, flexing one shoulder. Her taka-dans were becoming more strenuous, and her underworked muscles were protesting. Then, in Torovan, which she knew the Isfayen spoke only a little, “Did you fuck her?” Jaryd scowled at her. “Damon told me. Don’t worry, I’m not about to take your head for it.” And she smiled. “She could use a good fuck too. Better you take her virginity than that Larosan ass.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Jaryd said shortly. Sasha watched him, with great curiosity. He wasn’t joking now.
“How was it like?”
“I’m not sure,” said Jaryd. “Perhaps you should ask her.”
“I love her dearly, Jaryd, but she is a breathless young girl at times. I’m sure you’ve made more difficult conquests…”
“I told you, it wasn’t like that.” Jaryd’s voice betrayed impatience now.
“I believe you. Do you love her?”
Jaryd sighed, and ran a hand through his lengthening hair. “Would it matter?”
“It would to you. And it would to her, I’m sure.”
“That’s the trouble,” said Jaryd. “Best drop it.”
He indicated ahead, to a gathering of flags by the village outskirts. Flags of the Larosan royalty, Sasha saw.
“Do they know?” Sasha asked.
“Probably. But rumour here is even worse than Baen-Tar. Sofy’s rumoured to have slept with half the army, so I’m lost in the crowd. Yasmyn’s bn spreading the best rumours, she always rumours Sofy to be secretly in love with the best Lenay swordsmen, and makes it known to the Larosans that those swordsmen will demand an honour duel if accused. And the Larosans don’t know Lenayin well enough to know which rumours are possible, and which are horse shit.”
“I’m sure the priesthood isn’t amused,” said Sasha, as they skirted preparations for a large tent to be erected.
“The Larosan priesthood is amused by nothing,” Jaryd agreed. “It’s a curious thing. Bawdy lords and even some ladies at the feasts and weddings, and some behaviour that would even make a Lenay blush. The priests don’t bother with that. They’re concerned about the serrin, and purity. You’d be in far greater danger with your bed partners, by the sound of it.”
Evidently he wanted to hear more of Errollyn, having heard the rumours. It was only fair, as she’d grilled him on his affair with Sofy. But she could not speak of Errollyn, and had to gaze toward the river to hold her composure. Jaryd saw her pain, and put a hand on her shoulder.
“He must be an impressive man,” he said quietly. “To have won the heart of Sashandra Lenayin.”
“The most impressive.”
It was Prince Balthaar Arosh himself who greeted them at the outskirts of the village. He made a great show of noble courtesy, shaking the hands of the Isfayen lords, complimenting them on their warrior reputation, and then kissing Sasha’s hand. He was not slimy like some lowlands nobility, Sasha conceded reluctantly. Tall and handsome, yes, with thick brows and a composed demeanour. Educated, with a straight bearing and an effortless grasp of comportment and manners. And he called her “sister,” and walked with her through the outskirts of the fishing village, as though he had arrived here with the intention of doing precisely that.
“Tell me,” he said in nicely accented Torovan, “how do the Isfayen regard you? I had heard that you’d had a confrontation with the Great Lord Faras before.” In the Udalyn Valley, when Faras had ridden with King Torvaal to help put an end to Sasha’s little rebellion. Balthaar had done some research.
“Great Lord Faras is loyal to his king,” said Sasha. “He viewed my actions as disloyal, and thought ill of me. But his daughter Yasmyn has been riding with my sister, and Prince Damon informed me that the Isfayen opinion of me had been improving. The Isfayen respect warriors.”
Sasha made certain to walk between the prince regent and Jaryd. Balthaar did not look at the younger man, but that might have been the simple arrogance of royalty. Sasha wondered.
The village houses were of squat stone walls and thatched roofs, wealthier than most Larosan villages, yet still unattractive to Sasha’s eye. A woman walking toward them with a laden basket and two children in tow fell to one knee in horror as she realised who approached. The prince’s knights swaggered past her, hands on sword belts, regarding her as a big dog might regard a small one grovelling at its paws. Sasha’s mood, recently brightened, darkened once more.
“I do confess to being somewhat astonished,” Prince Balthaar continued, “that such formidably masculine peoples as the Lenays should accept a woman with a sword into their midst on the road to war.”
“The warriors of Lenayin respect skill with a sword,” Sasha replied. She extended a hand to ruffle the hair of the kneeling woman’s little boy in passing, but the woman drew him fearfully back from the nobility’s path. The little boy stared, his face dirty, fingers in his mouth. “There is a saying in Valhanan, that should the mouse best the wolf, then give the mouse a chieftain’s staff and let him rule in the land of wolves.”
“It is not common though, surely, for the mouse to best the wolf?”
“Not common, no,” said Sasha. “But should it occur, then should the wolves not show respect?”
“There is a tale of mice chasing cats in the Bacosh,” said Balthaar. His manner was so languid and airy, it was difficult to tell what, if anything, he was truly thinking. “Not the same thing, but close enough, for the purposes of tales. This occurred following the murder of a king by a commoner. The natural order was upset, and the mice chased the cats, and the cats chased the dogs, and the women beat the men.”
“Is it then an established order of the Bacosh that the men should beat the women?” Sasha asked coolly.
“Not the good men, dear sister. Be assured that you should never fear for your Sofy, I do love her most dearly.”
“I have heard so,” said Sasha. Jaryd, Sasha knew, spoke reasonable Torovan. She did not look at him, and he remained silent.
“Perhaps it would be wise of you, sister, to not wear your blade so prominently upon your back,” Balthaar said then. “I fear that there are some in these lands who might take it ill.”
“Where then should I wear it?”
“A hip would suffice,” said Balthaar, with certainty.
“I do not like the scabbard to bang against my leg,” said Sasha, nervelessly. “I have never seen a swordbelt that well fits a woman’s hips. And I have always drawn over the shoulder. One does not toy with ingrained reflexes.”
“I fear you miss my point,” said Balthaar. “To wear a blade as such is to announce one’s self Nasi-Keth. For centuries in these lands, the Nasi-Keth have been put to the sword.”
“I am Nasi-Keth,” said Sasha. “And if any would like to put me to the sword, they’ll find that mine is sharper.”
“M’Lady,” said Balthaar, with the first trace of temper, “you are a guest in these lands.”
“I’m not,” said Sasha. “I’m an ally, and family to you by marriage. A guest is one who requires hospitality. Lenayin requires nothing from you, Prince Balthaar. You require us. We come to fight and die at your request, and we shall not now demean ourselves in bowing to your sense of decorum.”
To Sasha’s surprise, Balthaar raised his eyebrows and fought back a smile. “The tales I hear of you are true. You will not bow to anyone.”
“You’ll find it a common trait amongst Lenays,” Sasha said.
Balthaar laughed. “That must be why you’re always fighting and killing each other.”
“Not nearly so much as here,” Sasha replied. Balthaar’s amusement faded. “Furthermore, Your Highness, if we fight and kill those who attempt to make us bow on this ride, it will not be other Lenays who do the dying. One should not invite the Army of Lenayin into one’s lands if one does not understand that.”
In the centre of the village there was a small temple in a courtyard. About it crowded many lords of Lenayin and the Bacosh. They milled in small discrete groups, and conversed as though waiting for something. Men saw Balthaar at the head of his party and bowed at his approach. Before the temple’s steps, men in odd robes had gathered. Sasha left Balthaar’s side to step through the throng of armed and armoured men, to catch a closer look.
From the edge of the crowd she could see the gathered formation, of men in black robes emblazoned with green, Verenthane stars. The men wore tall and pointed hoods, their faces covered with holes cut for the eyes. Several carried tall Verenthane stars on poles. To their side, prominent among the surrounding men, stood King Torvaal Lenayin, and Regent Arosh, side by side. All were waiting, and men stood clear of the path before them. Someone, or something, was coming.
Jaryd and Yasmyn pushed in at Sasha’s sides. “Looks like the oddest wedding I’ve ever seen,” Jaryd joked.
“They do more than marry people in the temples around here,” Yasmyn said grimly. Sasha looked about, and found that they were alone amongst Bacosh lords and knights, many of whom gave them long looks. A moment later she saw Sofy, standing with Balthaar, her hand in his as he guided her behind the line of hooded men to stand by his father’s side.
“Who are these idiots?” Sasha asked, confident that none immediately surrounding would be able to understand Lenay.
“The elwon vaar,” said Yasmyn. “It means ‘Black Order,’ in Larosan.”
“Original,” Sasha said. She did not like the look of them. She had not heard of the Black Order, but she knew of the extremes to which some in the Bacosh took their beliefs. Any group so assembled, in uniform costume, beneath Verenthane symbols, would arouse her wariness. “Who are they?”
“Men,” said Yasmyn. “All sorts of men. High men, low men, city men and country men. No peasants, but all other sorts of men. The priesthood selects them, but they do not say who they are. They are the silent arm of the priesthood.”
Sasha thought she understood. “Informants.”
“Yes. They tell the priests of blasphemy, witchcraft, all those things. Much better for the priests if no one knows who they are. So they wear hoods.”
“Sofy says Lenayin has too many stupid old traditions,” Jaryd muttered. “I’m quite certain I prefer our stupid old traditions to these.”
“Not an old tradition,” said Yasmyn, shaking her head. “Less than fifty years old.”
“About the time the priesthood became impatient with the lords’ failure to reclaim the Saalshenthe Black and set about turning it into a holy crusade,” Sasha surmised.
“Yes. Here, faith is politics.” Yasmyn sounded disgusted. “The priests make new beliefs, to suit their king. The king lets them, as it suits his interest. They make a travesty of the gods, and priests and king rule the land together, two hands about the peoples’ throat.”
“He’s not a king, he’s a regent,” said Jaryd.
“Bah,” said Yasmyn. “A king is a king. He only says ‘regent’ to make it impossible for anyone to disagree that he should attack the Saalshen Bacosh. That’s new too. The last regent, Elrude, started that by saying no one could call themselves ‘king’ until the Saalshen Bacosh was reclaimed. They call it ‘Elrude’s Oath.’ His son was killed in battle against serrin scouts, and he vowed no one could call themselves king until all serrin were driven from the Bacosh. Until then it was just more squabbling Bacosh kings, even with the Saalshen Bacosh in serrin hands.”
Sasha looked at the Isfayen girl’s grim expression. “You know a lot.”
“Princess Sofy, she knows language better than me, she learns a people’s ways, and listens to the music of their soul. I leave that to her. My father taught me blood, knives and politics. I try to keep her alive.”
“And do so with my thanks,” said Sasha.
“Thank me or not, it is my duty. My father told me a woman could defend her best, because a woman can go places and ask things a man cannot. Prince Damon agreed.”
“Damon’s quite smart,” Sasha agreed. “For a man.”
“Hey,” said Jaryd.
“You have studied under Kessligh Cronenverdt,” said Yasmyn, her dark, slanted eyes on Sasha.
“And?”
“He is the greatest man of Lenayin. I would share his bed and bear his child, should he ask.”
“You’re not the first to offer.”
“I would share your bed, should you ask.”
Sasha blinked. “I don’t lean that way.”
Yasmyn smiled broadly. “Me neither. But even so.”
Hooves clattered nearby, and trumpets rang out. Sasha winced. She was beginning to dislike trumpets. They seemed indicative of everything brash, loud and arrogant that she disliked in the lowlands. Doubtless the Lenay lords would love them, and take them back to Lenayin to deafen guests at hall feasts.
Horsemen entered the courtyard, and rode in formation through the crowd. These were Torovan, Sasha saw, their steel helms pointed, their coats and sleeves longer than the Bacosh preference for vests. A mass of bannermen led the way, proclaiming house crests, and holding eight-pointed stars aloft. Sasha recognised the crest of House Steiner.
“The Torovan column must be catching up,” said Jaryd, studying the riders. “Torovan cavalry ride well, I hear.”
“Fine holl feasts.,” Sasha agreed. “Many Lenay-bred. I might have raised one of these myself.”
And here rode Symon Steiner, the king’s heir. Prince Steiner. His horse was white, and he rode poorly, a slim man of no great stature in a great, golden cloak and a golden crown on his head. Good spirits, Sasha thought. Big, fat old Patachi Steiner bought his little boy a crown. How positively preposterous.
“I might be ill,” she remarked as Prince Symon rode by, flanked by guards. The Bacosh lords raised a cheer.
“He is your brother, yes?” Yasmyn asked.
“No,” Sasha said coldly. “Just another fucking in-law. I’ve killed his men and I’d do the same to him in a heartbeat. After Steiner became king, they sent assassins to Dockside to kill the remaining disloyal priests, and then they started after lower-slope families they thought had been too close to the Dockside. We had to kill upper slope Patachis and their sons until they stopped. Pity we never got close enough to get him.”
“Sometimes I wonder if there are any truly honourable men in Rhodia save the Lenays,” said Jaryd.
“Yes,” Sasha said quietly. “There’s the serrin.”
Behind Symon and his entourage, there rode a priest. Sasha frowned, having never seen a priest on horseback before. She did not recognise this one, except that he wore black robes, and a stern haircut, and was doubtless one of Steiner’s cronies. She knew what was coming now, and why all the leaders of the various allied armies had been gathered here in the village outside of Nithele.
The priest got off his horse to stand beside Symon Steiner, before the assembled ranks of the Black Order. The Black Order parted, and escorted the men to the steps of the temple. They climbed, and there waited another man in black robes, enormously fat and entirely bald.
“Archbishop Turen,” said Jaryd. “The Archbishop of Larosa and the ‘free Bacosh.’ I had to negotiate with him to get as much Lenay tradition into the wedding as we did. He’s a stupid fat shit.”
“You think they’re all stupid fat shits,” Yasmyn replied.
“Which is why it was such a good idea to let me do the negotiations,” Jaryd said. “I gave them nothing. Besides, they all are stupid fat shits. In Lenayin I knew many good priests. Here, I think the good men are disqualified.”
“I knew good priests in Petrodor too,” Sasha muttered. “Stupid fat shits tried to kill them all.”
The Torovan priest withdrew a bundle from his robes, and unwrapped it, with careful ceremony. When the package lay exposed, Archbishop Turen blessed it, and sprinkled holy water on it. Sasha sensed the men about holding their breaths, eyes transfixed in silent reverence. For herself, she felt dread. She knew this object. In Petrodor, it had caused her, and people she loved, much grief.
The archbishop carefully took the object’s chain, and raised a golden medallion the size of his palm. It glistened with jewels. Then he turned to the crowd and announced something in Larosan. Sasha heard the word “Shereldin.” This was the Shereldin Star, holiest of holy Verenthane objecthe stars were forged upon the commission of something sacred to the priesthood, whether the elevation of common priests to higher status, or the founding of a new temple. This was forged on the founding of the Enoran High Temple. Two centuries ago, the serrin had come, and the star had been “saved,” eventually to find its way to Petrodor, recently the centre of the Verenthane world. There, it had become the symbol of the priesthood’s desire to reunify the Verenthane lands, and the rallying flag for the armies assembled for the task.
The archbishop raised the star with a final pronouncement, and all across the courtyard, men dropped to one knee and bowed their heads. Sasha remained standing. So did Jaryd. Yasmyn half-dropped, then paused in confusion. Sasha put a hand on her head and pushed her down properly. She could not see anyone else standing, across the entire courtyard, which meant that Yasmyn’s father Lord Faras had knelt. Best that his daughter did not cause him trouble.
The archbishop did not notice the two still standing, and resumed his speech, but the priest at his elbow noticed, and put a hand on his arm. He pointed, straight at Sasha and Jaryd.
“How many do you think we could take?” Jaryd wondered aloud, eyeing the faces that were now turning their way.
“Hundreds,” said Sasha. Jaryd smiled, and flexed his sword hand.
The archbishop stopped speaking. There was confusion, some in the crowd looking about, instructions, pointing and hand waving among the Black Order. Then several men in black hoods came running along the cleared path the horses had taken. Sasha did not feel any alarm. She knew where she stood. The prospect of killing these men did not particularly trouble her…if they asked her to kneel.
Four of the black-robed and hooded men stopped before Sasha and Jaryd, and threw their robes back to reveal swords at their belts. Sasha smiled. She did not think the Black Order would be the best of the Bacosh’s warriors, and those were no match for Lenay swordsmen like Jaryd. She herself was better again. Perhaps these fools required a demonstration of the fact.
Yasmyn stood up. Sasha frowned at her, but Yasmyn ignored her, and put a hand to her darak. Perhaps twenty paces away, Great Lord Faras of Isfayen also emerged from the sea of kneeling bodies, giving his daughter a long, displeased look. About him, the rest of the Isfayen contingent stood in solidarity with their lord. Several more Lenays followed. Then some more, like new shoots sprouting from a fertile soil. A priest came striding to them and stood before Sasha and Jaryd.
“Kneel!” he said in Torovan. “Kneel at once!”
“No,” said Sasha.
“We ride to war on a holy crusade!” snarled the priest. “If you will not kneel for this, what then do you fight for?”
“The warriors of Lenayin,” Sasha shouted in Torovan, “shall kneel to whom and what they choose! It is not for any man here to instruct a Lenay man on to what, or to whom, he must or must not kneel!”
It was a kayesar, and she knew it. A pronouncement of righteous truth. About the courtyard, more Lenays stood. Most of the lords remained kneeling, but Sasha saw with satisfaction that many of their guards and company captains were standing. More long-haired and slant-eyed lords also d…Yethulyn, Sasha saw, the Isfayen’s western neighbours, and unwilling to be shown up by their hated rivals on a point of Lenay honour. And what was some golden trinket to a lord of Yethulyn? They were Verenthanes, but not in any fashion a lowlander would recognise. The thing in the archbishop’s hands looked like jewellery, a thing of great value, with which to stoke a man’s greed. The Lenays of the western highlands liked gold as well as anyone, yet few Lenays anywhere would fight and die for it. To suggest that a man might was to suggest that his honour could be bought. To suggest such a thing, anywhere in Lenayin, was a dangerous matter.
The angry priest seemed to take a breath, eyes darting, as he reassessed his situation. Clearly it had not occurred to anyone, in organising this ceremony, that something like this might happen.
“That is the Shereldin Star,” he explained. “It is the founding star of the Enoran High Temple, the holiest temple in all Verenthane lands, the place where the gods did pass down the Scrolls of Ulessis to Saint Tristen, and to all human kind. It is surely most blessed by the gods, and should you not kneel before their audience, then you do blaspheme most grievously to their very faces!”
“I see no gods here,” said Sasha. “Only men. Any god who would demand that a Lenay man kneel to a golden trinket is no true god of Lenays.”
“You must kneel!” the priest yelled, tendons straining in his neck.
Sasha just stared at him, contemptuously.
“We Lenays,” Jaryd said loudly, “have very stiff knees.” There was laughter from Lenays about the courtyard. More rose to their feet, even the lords. To blaspheme was one thing, but even for devout Verenthanes, this was now about far more than faith.
Behind the priest, a dark-cloaked figure came walking. To Sasha’s astonishment, it was her father, solemn and unsmiling as always. He stopped beside the priest.
“It was a mistake,” he told the priest, in Torovan, “to hold this ceremony before the Goeren-yai. I would have told you that this would happen, but I was not consulted. That oversight now leaves us in an unfortunate predicament.”
“This is your daughter,” said the priest. “Make her obey.”
“She is Goeren-yai,” the king said simply, “and I cannot.”
The priest stared at him. Sasha stared too, in greater shock than the priest. Her father had admitted the unsayable. She had lived much of her life in fear of what might happen should she state the fact so publicly. Now, her father did it for her, in front of a lowlands priest and his flock.
“Your Highness,” said the priest, between gritted teeth, “Lenayin must decide whether it is a Verenthane kingdom or not. The moment for deciding is now.”
“In Lenayin,” said the king, “the chasm between what the kingdom is, and what its nobility may aspire to make it, is often vast indeed. I urge you not to press this matter. I know my people. A Lenay will bow only to whom he chooses, and should you seek to deny him that right, then this alliance is ended, and the holy lands shall remain in the hands of Saalshen. Worse, I think it likely this courtyard shall be drowned with holy bloos not cou to consider your priorities, Father.”
Torvaal Lenayin did not look at his daughter. He had not spoken with her since her return to the Lenay fold. Word was that he grieved for Alythia. Sasha had wondered if he blamed her and decided that she did not care what he thought. But now, she wondered again.
The priest stormed back toward the archbishop.
“Father,” said Sasha. And felt a sudden, inexplicable yearning. For what, she did not know. “Father…”
Torvaal Lenayin turned on his heel and followed the priest, his black cloak flowing out behind. Sasha felt a pain in her throat. She wanted to run after him and grab him by the arms, and yell into his face. But she did not know what she would say.
There was dark, earnest discussion between priests, Archbishop Turen, King Torvaal and Regent Arosh. They took their places again, and the command was given to rise. The ceremony resumed with all now standing. Sasha could not see much over the tall heads of the men around her, but she did not care. Bacosh men standing nearby gave her very dark looks, but Jaryd and Yasmyn kept guard of her flanks. She could not see Sofy, nor her brothers, from this position, but she could see the Black Order, pointed hoods in rows, like sharp black teeth before the temple steps.
Sasha trained with the officers and yuans that Damon had selected, discussing tactics, and the new use to which Lenay warriors were being instructed to put their shields. There were even several knights, one from Merraine, the other from Tournea, adding their expertise at Damon’s request. They discussed, demonstrated, and made small formations on the riverbank a little upstream from the Nithele walls. Even here, Lenay soldiers intruded upon their practice, filling pots with water, leading horses to drink, bathing, or bartering with the boats that rowed upstream from the city. Those were everywhere, a mass of narrow vessels hugging the shore where the high waters moved with less force, men aboard shouting their wares to all ashore. In others, city girls lifted their dresses to show pale legs, as men ashore hollered and laughed, and asked after the price.
“Perhaps if our cavalry cannot win through the Steel lines,” one powerful yuan said at a pause in training, “we could send our army of whores at them.”
Men laughed. There were hundreds trailing the Army of Lenayin, it was said, though Sasha had not visited the tail of the column to see. Many had children with them, and some, husbands. It was even said that parents were offering daughters for a price. Sasha was astonished at the utter pridelessness of the Bacosh peasantry. She had never considered that a people might discard their honour so wantonly. Perhaps, it occurred to her, honour was not a necessity of human life, but rather a luxury. Her Lenay soul rebelled at the thought.
Mostly she watched as the men discussed and considered the battle to come, contributing occasionally, but not joining in directly. This was men’s fighting, with heavy armour and heavy blows, and no room for finesse. Svaalverd technique counted for little in such an environment. Without technique, she would be just a woman surrounded by men, and no use to anyone. Ahorse, however, she fancied she might have a contribution to make.
One of the young men present was a new arrival, from Torovan. Duke Carlito Rochel, the Lord of Pazira province, son of Sasha’s old friend Alexanda Rochel. He had ridden in with the aance party bearing the Shereldin Star, and said now that the main Torovan column was but two days’ march behind. Sasha was pleased to meet Carlito, yet sad too, for his father had tried his best to prevent Pazira’s participation in this war. He would be very sad to know that his son now rode to fight in the greatest battle the Bacosh had ever known. Sasha wondered if Alexanda had died in vain. And wondered if she would ever again see a day where every new thought did not make her sad.
As she sat on a riverside log, watching the men discussing the collision of two shield lines, she heard a rattle of armoured footsteps. A knight approached, in neck-to-ankles chain mail, and carrying a sack.
“Sashandra Lenayin!” he called, as though pleased to see her. Sasha stood up. Over the mail, the knight wore a surcoat of family colours that Sasha did not recognise. Four more knights walked with him, and there was something to their manner that she did not like. Sasha heard the discussion and clash of practice stanch on shield behind her cease.
The man before her was broad and dark haired. “Aren’t you going to ask who I am?” he asked her after a pause.
“If I cared, I’d ask,” said Sasha.
“I am Sir Eskwith, Lord of Assineth. Cousin to the prince regent. Your relation, I suppose.”
“Great,” said Sasha, expressionlessly. “Welcome to the family.”
“I saw your little performance today, before the temple,” Eskwith continued. “It has caused many of the good lords to wonder exactly whose side you’re on.”
“Lenayin’s,” said Sasha, with certainty.
“Pagan Lenayin’s,” said Sir Eskwith.
“Lowlanders make that distinction. Lenays don’t.”
“My new friends in the Lenay north certainly do.”
“I’ve killed plenty,” said Sasha. “I don’t care what they think.” She could hear her friends approaching, wondering at the intrusion on the Lenay camp.
“I hear you have a serrin lover,” he said. “I wonder if he looks anything like this?” He upended the sack and a severed head fell on the rough grass at Sasha’s feet. The hair was silver tingeing toward pale blue and tied with several long braids. The eyes, and features, were serrin. Sasha’s heart nearly stopped. For an instant, she saw the head as Errollyn’s. Then, as Alythia’s, as it had lain at her feet in her Tracato cell. “This one was a scout, moving by night. We caught him, and I assure you, he did not die quickly. That is what we do to demon spawn and their friends in these lands.” He paused for effect. “And to their whores.”
Sasha drew her sword and cut off Sir Eskwith’s head. The body toppled, fountaining blood. The head rolled to join the serrin’s at Sasha’s feet. “Is that a fact?” she said.
She advanced on Eskwith’s companions as they fumbled for their swords in shock, holding her blade low, the fourth en’alan commencement, a wrist cocked behind one hip and inviting the obvious attack. One knight swung at her, and she swayed aside and tookhis hand off in the follow through. Swung back fast to deflect the second knight’s attack, the second motion of which became a new strike that took off the handless man’s head. She spun about the falling body to impale the third in the shoulder in mid-backswing, ducking away from the second as he came at her, spinning her blade through easy wrist twirls.
“Run away or yield!” she could hear Jaryd yelling from nearby. “I’m warning you, run away or yield, or you’re dead!” He was not yelling at her, she knew very well. There were two healthy ones left, and the wounded one. They were powerful, but their chain mail and heavy swords made them slow.
One advanced on Sasha as she skipped backward on the grass. She invited his feint, swaying one way and then the other, only bringing her sword into play at the last moment to take his forearm as he lunged, then reverse into a cut up under the armpit, severing weak armour and most of the shoulder.
The last had been coming after her, but now stopped, looking scared. His companion, with a stab wound through one shoulder, was wavering on his feet, clutching the bloody slice through his mail. The man whose shoulder she’d severed was noisily dying amid great spurts of blood.
“Best let them yield, Sasha,” Jaryd warned her, still from a respectful distance. Her comrades were all watching, making no attempt to intervene on her behalf. They knew she wasn’t the one needing help. “I know this one man here, he assisted on the wedding. He’s not a bad man, Sasha.”
Sasha looked at him blandly. “Why should that matter?”
Jaryd looked back, warily, hand to his sword. Duke Carlito stood nearby, with wide-eyed disbelief. And Great Lord Faras, his dark eyes gleaming with admiration.
“Do you yield?” Jaryd asked the surviving two men. “There is no shame in it. She is the greatest swordsman in Lenayin.”
“No,” said Lord Faras, loudly. “She is the Synnich. You should bow before her, and be proud that your friends have had the honour to taste her blade.”
“What did they say?” Koenyg asked his sister as she stood before him in the royal tent. Beyond the canvas walls, there were crowds. Royal Guards stood at the entrance, leaving the heir and his sister to privacy.
“The leader threw a severed serrin head at my feet,” said Sasha. Her eyes seemed almost dull, devoid of feeling. Koenyg had never seen her like this before. It unnerved him, in a way that countless boasting, chest-thumping Lenay warriors had never managed before. “It was a threat, to my head, and to the heads of those I care for. He called me a whore to the serrin.”
“Did you feel yourself personally threatened?”
“Only my honour,” said Sasha. “In Lenayin, men die for less.”
“Did you give warning?”
“It was a threat. The codes say an accusation must be tested in honourable combat, but a threat may warrant an immediate reply. There were five of them.”
“You had support,” Koenyg replied.
“Not immediately to hand. I was not favoured by numbers. They threatened me five-against-one. It was dishonourable, and they deserved to die.”
“That’s brutal, Sasha,” Koenyg said. “Even for you.” Sasha’s eyes registered nothing. “I’d have expected such an interpretation of the codes from Lord Krayliss, or maybe Lord Heryd.”
Sasha met his stare for the first time. The old temper was still there, burning deep. Somehow, Koenyg found that comforting. “Lenayin did not march to Larosa to be buggered by swinging dicks in chain mail,” Sasha said loudly. “Are we an equal partner in this marriage, or do they get liberties? First they ask us to kneel. Do they next ask us to bend over?”
Koenyg shook his head in faint disbelief. “Don’t attempt to excuse each of your personal tantrums as a grand act of patriotism. You’re a mess, Sasha. You and I have rarely agreed, but I admit I did find some affection for the lively girl who rode horses and skinned her knees. That girl loved life, and often laughed. The girl I see now loves only death, and she never smiles.”
“She was a fool,” Sasha said bitterly. “She did not understand the world. She knows better now, and she knows that freedom must be fought for, or lost.”
“And for whose freedom do you fight?”
“The freedom for Lenays to be Lenays!”
“Or the freedom to kill people you don’t like,” Koenyg suggested. Sasha folded her arms, and looked aside.
“If you wish to punish me,” she said shortly, “then do so. I’ve better things to do than listen to lectures.”
“I’m not going to punish you, Sasha. You’ve caused a mess, but it has its uses. I did warn our Larosan allies that they should tread carefully upon Lenay honour, and that lords should not presume to rub their lessers’ noses in the mud, as they do amongst their own kind. I also warned them to accept that half of our army are not even Verenthanes, and not to provoke that half with the fact. But first they make a mess with the Shereldin Star, and now this. Best that they learn their place, with us.”
He took a waterskin from its hanging peg upon the tent’s central pole, and poured them each a cup.
Sasha took a sip, her eyes upon him, and frowning. She’d expected him to be angry, clearly.
“Sasha, you’re an idiot. You’ve never understood my motivations. You’re like all these stupid Goeren-yai gossipers. You think I’m putting Lenayin in the pockets of lowlands Verenthanes. No, Sasha.” He leaned forward. “I am a Lenay patriot. I wish to make Lenayin strong. This war shall secure our strength, forging ties to the most powerful lowlands kingdoms, and proving our worth to all. It shall unite our peoples, as nothing else has managed before. And if you cutting the heads off a few lowlanders helps them to learn respect and fear of us, then so much the better. A little fear can be a good thing, Sasha. I do not mind that you frighten them, and I do not wish for any of us to kneel.”
He smiled at her grimly. Sasha looked a little dazed. Perhaps she had not expected him to be honest.
“I saw Alythia’s head,” she said quietly. “When he tossed that head from the sack, I saw Alythia’s head instead. I just killed him. I mean…I just killed him.”
She looked shaken. Gods, Koenyg thought, she did the strangest things to him sometimes. There was a time when he’d hated her for being Krystoff’s collaborator, for causing father and the kingdom such trouble, and for being so selfish. But she had much to admire about her too, like bravery, skill and leadership. Her presence here united the most troublesome factions of the Lenay Army firmly beneath his command-the eastern Goeren-yai, the ones who had followed her on her northern rebellion, and had never liked this war. If she followed him, then they would too. And now, it was clear that she’d truly loved Alythia, whatever their earlier differences. Sasha did not hold grudges, Sofy had insisted to him once. Sasha could change her mind about people. Perhaps there was yet hope for them, as siblings.
Koenyg put a hand to her shoulder. “I miss Alythia too.”
“Do you ever get scared that one day, you’ll do something really terrible?” The look in Sasha’s eyes was haunted. “That one day, you’ll just lose control, and be responsible for something that will eat at your soul for the rest of your life?”
“No,” said Koenyg. “I worry that one day there’ll be something I didn’t do, that led to something terrible. Inaction is the worst sin of leaders, Sasha. If your cause is just, then the greatest sin in all the world is to sit and do nothing.”
Sasha nodded uncertainly. It was the only time Koenyg could recall her seeming so vulnerable in his presence.
“Sasha, you killed Eskwith because he killed a serrin. Yes, he challenged your honour, but that was not the primary matter. Yet we ride against serrin. Doubtless there will be many, fighting against us in days to come. If you fight with us, you may even kill some yourself. Perhaps, if you are unlucky, even a friend of yours.”
“Errollyn is too ill,” Sasha replied, her voice barely audible.
“But you have other friends. And they have friends, and perhaps family, in the talmaad or the Steel. I know how serrin and human intermix in the Saalshen Bacosh.” He tried to search her face, but she was looking down. Koenyg put gentle fingers under her chin, and lifted.
Sasha’s eyes spilled tears. Her gaze was desperate. Pleading. Koenyg considered her for a long moment and nodded. Now he knew. What effect it would have, when the time came, he could not know. But he would be ready for all eventualities.
“Very well,” he said softly. “No more questions. Do not think on it. Go back to your friends, and rest. I shall deal with the angry in-laws.”
Sofy sat in the hot bath, and gazed at the roof of her tent. Outside, she could hear the sounds of the camp. Not for the first time, she wondered why she was here in the field, and not back in the palace in Sherdaine.
She knew that there were some in Sherdaine who did not appreciate the fact that the new princess regent was a barbarian Lenay, but she doubted that it was that simple. The Bacosh Army was not merely a temporary allegiance of Larosa, Tournea, Meraie, Algrasse and Rakani, it was an allegiance of all the families, properties, lineages and minor allegiances within those provinces. Much like Lenayin in that each province was shared by many conflicting interests…except that in Lenayin, the nobility were largely united, a necessity given how badly outnumbered they were, and how poorly respected among the nonnobility, both Verenthane and Goeren-yai.
In the Bacosh, those not noble were dismissed as “peasants,” and used as little more than tools of power. All true power rested with the nobility, and noble families, it seemed to Sofy, had no true friends. The borders of the provinces were only temporary things. Sofy had seen maps of the Bacosh covering the last two hundred years, and further back still, before King Leyvaan and the creation of the Saalshen Bacosh. The borders changed every decade or so, it seemed, and the smaller boundaries of noble lands that split each province in a ragged patchwork of lines were constantly clustering, uniting, splitting and shifting. On those maps, the boundaries of noble lands remained drawn on the Saalshen Bacosh side of the border, where such things had long since ceased to hold any meaning. She had noticed, from decade to decade, that those lines never shifted, preserving the holdings as they’d stood, as though the coming of the serrin had been a great winter chill, freezing the territories as they’d stood in King Leyvaan’s time.
There were some families marching in the army who claimed ancient ancestral rights on those territories, primarily in Enora where no surviving claimants remained. In Rhodaan and Ilduur, many thought to reinstate surviving claimants and thus gain powerful allegiances, or perhaps to have those claimants found unworthy once the lands were conquered, and struck out by ruling of the new Bacosh king. Some of the Rhodaani nobility had arrived in the army at the same time as Sasha. Men from Tracato, who now declared their rights to old Rhodaani territories, and registered their claims with old maps before the regent. Sofy had spoken with a Lord Elot from Tracato who had been displeased that instead of a joyful welcome from his noble allies, he had received cold hostility from some who felt that his claims were overstated, and impinged upon their own entitlements. Others, Lord Elot had said with frustration, were demanding land concessions as compensation for losses that would be incurred in battles to come. Sofy had tried to be understanding, yet she wondered if the Tracato nobility had ever truly considered the nature of civilisation they now sought to rejoin. It was power hungry and competitive, and wanted advancement to the detriment of others. To hear Sasha speak of it, the Rhodaani nobility had thought themselves to be fighting an ideological battle for the restoration of ancient justice. They had forgotten that to the nobility of the “free Bacosh,” such sentiments meant nothing. They wanted land, and gathered beneath the priests’ holy banners not for the gods, but like hounds behind their masters’ horses on a hunt, hoping for the reward of fresh prey, and blood.
Balthaar and his father, the regent, had brought Sofy on this march simply for the safety and continuity of the family line, she was increasingly certain. She would not be safe from the family’s rivals in Sherdaine, particularly were the war to be lost. In that case, there would follow a quick ride to the family holdings in Ashane, seventeen leagues from Sherdaine, and a mustering of allies there to ward off further challenge. Family Arosh risked a lot in this venture. But the potential rewards were phenomenal.
Sofy heard a commotion at the entrance to her tent, then a striking sound. Yells followed, and the noise of fighting, barefisted. She thought toap from her bath, her heart pounding in sudden fear, yet mailed, angry men were coming into the tent even now, two holding between them one of the guards, his sword missing, arms immobilised.
“You!” said a man, and strode to Sofy’s bath in fury. She recognised Sir Elias Assineth, Balthaar’s cousin. Sofy barely had time to snatch at a bathside gown before he had her by the arm, and yanked her dripping to her feet, then onto the grassy tent floor.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sofy shouted, struggling to free herself and protect her modesty. “Let me go!”
“Speak Larosan like a true Larosan Queen, you pagan bitch!” snarled Sir Elias, and backhanded her to the face. Sofy fell to her knees, her gown fallen. Elias’s hand dragged her upright once more as her head continued to spin. She’d never been struck in the face before in her life. Far worse than the pain, she could not believe how helpless it rendered her. Her vision swam, and she could not think.
“You shall denounce your pagan sister!” Elias yelled. “You shall instruct your father to hand her to us for godly Larosan justice!”
Sofy’s Larosan was adequate now to understand him. And yet, she felt utterly uncomprehending. “My…my sister?” Sasha. Oh gods, not again. “What did she do?”
“She murdered my brother!”
A blood-chilling cry from outside spun Elias and his companions about, one nearest the tent’s entrance fending desperately with a mailed arm as a dark-haired girl with a wicked short blade tried to gut him like a fish.
“Yasmyn, no!” Sofy cried, as the first knight danced back, drawing his blade. Yasmyn spun to confront a second to her side, her slash deflecting harmlessly from his weapon. The first knight simply threw himself on her, heavy weight of mailed man crashing her down, then pinning her effortlessly beneath. They pulled her back up, deprived of her darak as she fought like a wild thing. The knights laughed, and hit her, again and again.
“Stop it!” Sofy yelled, tears flowing, but they paid her no mind. Sasha, she thought desperately, would have killed them all, but she was just a slim, naked girl. She struggled, trying to twist free, but Sir Elias wrenched her arm back and she fell to her knees. “Leave her alone, she was only protecting me!”
When Yasmyn was no longer fighting, the knights dragged her to a table, cleared it of cups and teapot with a sweep of an arm, and dumped her onto it, her head lolling and face bloody. One held her arms above her head, while another hiked up her dress, and yanked down her under garments. Yasmyn regained enough sense to kick him, and he and his companion punched her in the stomach with brutal force, laughing all the while.
Sofy screamed for help, but no one came. In the tales, the heroic knight always arrived in time to save the lady in distress. But although the tent was in the centre of the Larosan camp, and surrounded by those who could surely hear her cries, no one came. One knight took his turn with Yasmyn, and then the other. Yasmyn regained consciousness but she no longer fought. As a third knight unbuckled his pants, Yasmyn turned her head upon the table and fixed her princess with a stare of furious intensity, although one eye was already swollen nearly shut.
“Crying solves nothing!” she hissed at her in Lenay. “Be a woman, little girl!”
Sofy was so shocked, she swallowed her tears. Oddly, as soon as she did so, she felt something else, that the tears had perhaps obscured. Pure, molten fury. In her protected palace life, she had often wondered how Lenay warriors, or even her otherwise kind and wonderful sister Sasha, could hate a man enough to want to sever his limbs with sharpened steel. Now, finally, she understood.
While the third knight was taking his turn, Balthaar arrived, many armed men at his back.
“Unhand her!”
“Your Highness,” said the man holding Yasmyn’s arms, “at least let the poor man finish his turn!”
“Stop now,” said Balthaar, “or I’ll cut him so that he never has a turn again.” The knights looked aggrieved, but not alarmed. They abandoned Yasmyn, the last knight regathering his pants. Yasmyn got off the table, straightened down her dress, and limped awkwardly across the grass to where Sofy was kneeling, Lord Elias still grasping her arm. Sofy feared Yasmyn might do something rash, yet she merely knelt, and recovered Sofy’s fallen robe, and placed it about her princess’s shoulders.
“Let her go,” Balthaar said. He did not look at Sofy. Neither did he call her Princess Regent, or attempt to remind Sir Elias of his duty of respect to one above his station. Sofy wondered if she had ever truly been more than a Lenay barbarian to these people. And if her husband’s seemingly loving gaze had been any more than the fascination of a wealthy man with an enchanting new bauble.
Sir Elias released Sofy’s arm, and Yasmyn helped her to her feet. Sofy felt a rush of shame. Yasmyn had been beaten and raped, yet now stood with dignity and assisted her weak, pathetic princess shakily to her feet. Sofy stood, and put an arm around Yasmyn to offer a support Yasmyn did not seem to need. Hugging her was out of the question. Nothing in Yasmyn’s manner invited it. Sofy knew enough of the Isfayen to know what that meant.
Balthaar said nothing more, nor asked it of Sir Elias. He merely stared, dark and foreboding.
“Her rabid sister killed my brother!”
“One person does you harm, and so you attack others,” Balthaar observed mildly. “Very clever.”
“They’re all the same!”
“And our allies,” said Balthaar, “by allegiance that Family Assineth agreed to. Do you not understand the concept of allegiance, Sir Elias?”
“These allies have done us murder upon our lands!” Elias yelled, spittle flying. “Unless they pay us reparation, this allegiance lies broken! I demand the bitch’s head!”
“By Lenay tradition, and indeed our own,” Balthaar replied, “the lands upon which an army is encamped are to be considered beholden to their own laws. Your brother very foolishly stepped onto the Lenay camp uninvited, and overstepped the bounds of Lenay honour. I have spoken with Prince Koenyg, and all Lenays seem agreed on the matter, even those who have no love of Sashandra Lenayin. So long as the Army of Lenayin abides by its own laws upon their own encampment, no one has any matter to complain about.”
“Your Highness,” Elias tried again, struggling for control, “we are cousins. Our families have strong ties over many long years. In the name of our families, I ask you only for justice. Grant me justice, for my brother. Or I shall be forced to take it.”
“And sever an allegiance that promises to regain us the Saalshen Bacosh?” Balthaar replied, unperturbed. “The archbishops would view it ill. Perhaps you would like to argue the point with them?”
Elias hung his head, teeth grinding in frustration.
“Furthermore.” Balthaar walked slowly forward. “I would advise against any further action against the Lenays. I have spent part of the morning sparring against Prince Koenyg, and I will reluctantly confess that he bested me quite handily…something that you, Sir Elias, have found elusive. They have an even greater love of honourable combat than we, and would challenge any who so grievously insult them until there are none such left alive. Best that you stay off their lands for now. We have other uses for our Lenay allies.”
Elias opened his mouth, then paused, frowning.
Balthaar stopped before him, and put a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. “Prince Koenyg tells me that the Army of Lenayin shall take the southern, Enoran flank. Alone, save for some Torovan reinforcement. Against the Enoran Steel, their numbers should be matched quite evenly.”
Elias stared. “A feint?”
“To keep the Enoran Steel from sweeping onto our flank, yes,” Balthaar confirmed. “The Army of Lenayin has pride at stake, and we learn today all about Lenay pride. They shall not retreat easily, no matter their losses.”
Elias’s eyes registered a dawning realisation. A delight. “One needs four-to-one odds at least against the Steel. They’ll be annihilated!”
Balthaar shrugged. “Prince Koenyg thinks not. We shall see, indeed, to what all the tales of Lenayin’s martial prowess amount.” He shook Elias’s shoulder, affectionately. “Cousin, I grieve for Eskwith. But be at peace, there shall be blood enough for all purposes before this is through. Come, we shall drink to Eskwith’s memory, and of glories in battles to come.”
He escorted Sir Elias and his men from the tent, without a backward glance. There would be no further reprimand, Sofy realised. No punishment to Yasmyn’s attackers. When all had left the tent, she escorted Yasmyn to a chair and eased her into it, so she could better examine her injuries.
“Not blood enough for all purposes, dear husband,” she said blackly.
The service for Sir Eskwith, Sir Temploi and Sir Ancheve was concluded upon sundown. The evening meal was more lively than Prince Balthaar had expected, however, enlivened by much talk of the terrible fate awaiting the Army of Lenayin at the hands of the Enoran Steel. The Lenays, it was generally agreed, were mindless fools who did not take seriously the many lessons of the Saalshen Bacosh’s military prowess. Such talk was far freer of late, since it had been agreed by all that under the circumstances, the usual joint feast of Lenay and Bacosh lords was probably not a good idea.
Asand Sir Anr trudged back to the royal tent, he wondered what would truly happen if they won. His father was confident that they would, but his father, like his wife, placed far too much faith in the good opinion of the gods. Balthaar knew that all of history’s attempted liberators of the Saalshen Bacosh had believed the gods on their side too, yet defeat had claimed them all the same. Perhaps it was not enough to claim that the gods were on one’s side. Perhaps the gods were waiting for an army, and a future king, to prove himself worthy of their blessing. Balthaar wondered if those who had died at the hands of the Steel were now happily ensconced in the heavens, or had been cast down to Loth, having been found unworthy, whatever their valiant efforts. Were the gods that vindictive? He fervently hoped not.
The matter with Sofy troubled him too. He did not like how Sir Elias had treated her, yet Elias was old family, while Sofy was very new. He thought that he certainly must love her, because she was so very pretty and full of warmth, and so fascinating in her foreign ways and exotic accent. Yet truly, his father was right-an event like this could only serve to show her her place, among the Larosans. He had to make her see that she must abandon her old world entirely, if she were to be truly happy in the new. And he did wish her to be happy, very much so. He would make love to her tonight, he decided, and apologise to her not in words, but in the warmth of his kisses and the lust of his loins. He would make clear to her all that she had to gain, and for so little a sacrifice, indeed, in what she would leave behind.
A man came running, a rattle of armour between the tents, interrupting Balthaar’s thoughts. Balthaar stopped, not recognising the young man but noting that he seemed pale and alarmed. Something had happened.
“Your Highness. Best that you come and see.”
Not far away, a farmhouse had been consumed by the sea of tents, and appropriated for noble use. Torches and lanterns now clustered about one wall near some bushes, where a pair of newly headless bodies lay. Both were knights, in chain and family colours.
“Sir Diarmond and Sir Felesh,” said a man-at-arms, grimly. “Sir Elias found them. No one heard or saw a thing.”
Balthaar stared at the bodies. The wounds were clean and swiftly made, the mark of an expert swordsman. “Elias, you say?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“And where is Sir Elias now?”
“Under guard, by your leave, Your Highness. These two are his friends, I figured whoever did it might be after Sir Elias next.”
“Soldier, your name?”
“Sarno, Your Highness. Alaine Sarno.”
“You’re Tournean?”
“I am, Highness.”
“I shall pass on a commendation to your lord, Alaine Sarno.”
“I thank you, Your Highness.” The man bowed low.
Balthaar strode back to his tent, as the crowd about the bodies continued to gather. Sir Diarmond and Sir Felesh…they had been with Sir Elias in Sofy’s tent this afternoon. They had taken liberties with that pagan Isfayen girl…could that be it? Surely evee mad, bloodcrazed Lenays would not go to such lengths to avenge the honour of a fool like her? Besides, honourable combat was the preferred Lenay method. But yet another duel, in the midst of this deteriorating relationship between Lenays and Bacosh men, would be surely refused by the Lenay king. Certainly his father the regent would refuse it, as was his right, in his camp. Perhaps the murderers knew that. Or perhaps, when a Lenay was angry enough, proper form ceased to matter.
He pushed through the tent flaps. There was not a maid in sight, only a small table on which dinner could perhaps have been served. Sofy sat in a comfortable chair, a book on her lap, lit by a lantern on another table between two glowing coal braziers. She looked up at him, serenely.
“Dear husband, is something the matter?”
“Where is your Isfayen maid tonight, dearest?”
“She’s not my maid. She is back with her Isfayen family in the Army of Lenayin, I believe. Why do you wonder?”
“Two of Sir Elias’s friends are dead,” said Balthaar. “You met them earlier this afternoon. Their heads are missing.”
“Oh,” said Sofy. She resumed reading her book. “The Isfayen have not played lagand with real heads for years. I hear there will be a game tomorrow, though. Would you like to go and see?”