Sofy Lenayin galloped across the rolling hills of southern Telesia, ad felt that life could not possibly be more wonderful. Everywhere the grass was rising on tall stems that lashed about her horse’s legs, and flowers were blooming, yellow and purple and red across the glorious green sea.
Ahead, the land rose once more, and Sofy urged Dary faster up the rise. Perhaps she would finally discover a view down into Algrasse, and the Bacosh. But when she arrived, she saw only more hills, and lush, waving grass and flowers, far off to the horizon. The sight made her happy. She did not want this journey to end.
Further along the shallow ridge there loomed another old fortress, stark, broken walls and piles of fallen stones now overgrown with weeds. She pointed Dary that way and let him run as only a Lenay dussieh could-tirelessly, and with little sign of fatigue. She liked to ride out in front of her guard like this, and pretend she was alone on the plain, just her and her horse, and the wind in her hair. Princess Sofy Lenayin had been truly alone and in charge of her own destiny so very few times in her life.
Upon reaching the first of the fallen black stones, she reined Dary to a halt and dismounted. Immediately she heard the approach of her guard, four warriors on splendid warhorses, red capes flying, sunlight flashing on silver mail.
“Highness,” said Lieutenant Tyrel of the Royal Guard, “allow us to search the ruins first before you enter.”
“Oh, nonsense, Lieutenant!” Sofy protested. “It’s no fun exploring when you’ve already checked everything for me! Besides, these things have been deserted for centuries!”
“All the same, Highness,” he said, handing her his mount’s halter. “There could be bandits, or scavengers.”
Tyrel and another man drew their blades and climbed over the stones through a gap in the wall, leaving Sofy minding the horses while the other two guards rode the perimeter. That much, at least, they trusted her with. She was not much of a rider yet, compared to men such as these, but she could mind horses well enough.
Soon the guardsmen came back to say all was clear. Sofy climbed gingerly over the rocks, still not entirely accustomed to her leather boots and the riding pants she wore beneath her dress. She wished she could discard the dress, but there were too many men around who would find such a thing confronting. Whatever her recent adventures, she remained a princess of Lenayin, and a princess of Lenayin could not in good conscience wear pants alone.
Within the wall, she found herself in a wide courtyard of lush grass. Rising about, forming a square, were the remains of defensive walls.
“A place for perhaps fifty men and their horses,” said Lieutenant Tyrel. He pointed toward a large gap in the wall. “That would have been the main gate. They would have fetched water from the stream in the next valley.” Sofy hadn’t noticed a stream, but perhaps that was the difference between herself, who rode purely for pleasure, and Tyrel, who did not.
“It would be very crowded for so many horses in here,” Sofy said.
“Only if they were attacked,” said Tyrel. “Most other times the horses would graze free. These walls are only for defence in face of a superior enemy.”
“Not from an army, surely,” said Sofy. She wandered alongside he near wall, sidestepping fallen stones. On the most well-preserved portions of wall she could see battlements, where archers would have defended the walls from attack. “Fifty men behind these walls would barely last past breakfast against a determined infantry.”
She nearly smiled at her observation…as if she would know such things. Well, she was learning. She’d ridden with her sister Sasha in the Udalyn rebellion, and now she found herself six weeks and counting in the company of the greatest army Lenayin had ever sent to war. Sofy was good at asking questions and listening. In the presence of so many great warriors, all pining for their wives and daughters left behind, it was not hard to find knowledgeable men who found pleasure in sitting with her over a meal discussing such things as battlefield formations, infantry tactics and the offensive deployment of cavalry.
A gleam in the grass caught her eye. She stooped, and picked up a small piece of metal covered in dirt. Brushing at it, she found it was a coin. “Oh, how wonderful! It has markings…. I can’t read them, it’s too dirty. Perhaps I’ll have found a clue. I must have this cleaned.” She tucked it into the little pouch at her belt.
Sofy wanted to climb to the battlement, but Tyrel forbade it.
“It’s my neck on the block if you so much as twist your finger, begging your pardon, Highness. You’ve a wedding to attend, and I’ll see that you reach it in perfect health.”
A wedding. Just like that, her day darkened. Suddenly, the old walls lost their fascination, and she yearned once more for the freedom of the plains.
They rode down to water their horses at the little stream Captain Tyrel had spotted. Thick bushes grew there, and a few small, twisted trees, clinging close to the water’s edge. Sofy remembered the coin and washed it in the crystal water, but the dirt was centuries ingrained, and the metal itself seemed black with age. Perhaps someone back at the column would know a way of making it clean.
Finding the Lenay column once more was not difficult-it stretched for a half day’s march and more. So many men could be heard well before they were seen-a tinkle of metal, a creaking of leathers, a whisper of boots through the long grass. And coughs, whinnies, conversation and snatches of song. And, because they were Lenay, laughter. Lenay men made jokes to pass the time. Sofy had overheard some on her daily rides, and most had been coarse enough to make her blush bright pink. But that had been weeks ago; now she only smiled. She could hardly begrudge them their humour after six weeks’ march, and more yet to come.
Then they cleared a rise and she could see it. The column snaked across the hillside, as untidy and irregular as the Lenay people themselves. Certainly there was little discipline in their formations, as men walked where they would and stopped where they would, and went wandering off to the column’s side as they felt the urge to relieve themselves, or observe some passing curiosity. Only the banners held the broader column into its preferred order-the bannermen had been informed of the dishonour to their unit and region should they fall behind or lose their place, and so far, none had done so.
Sofy galloped to them, unable to see the column’s head. Men saw her coming, four Royal Guardsmen at her sides and another ten fanning further behind and to the flanks. Cheers went up, and swords were raised to salute her. Sofy grinned and wave back, coming close and then turning across them, heading toward the front.
These here were men of Rayen, southeastern Lenayin-she could tell well before she saw a banner from the long, thick locks of their Goeren-yai men. They favoured hard leather armour, studded and decorated with roundrel-pattern adornments. Many had shields slung at their backs-a rare thing for Lenay militia, though recently made more common by their provision courtesy of the king, as a gift to all the men who marched.
The column trailed along a gentle hillside, into a low valley then up the other side. Clearing the crest, Sofy found the Neysh cavalry, gathered to the front of the Neysh portion of column-crown-funded regulars in heavier armour, and noble lords in finer clothes and family colours. They also saluted her, most of them Verenthane, save for small groups of wild-haired Goeren-yai horsemen on smaller Lenay dussiehs.
As she passed the Neysh bannermen, Sofy knew she was getting close. Now came the Ranash, and she did not raise nearly the number of cheers from them as she had from the southerners. Ranash was northern, and entirely Verenthane. They recalled the Udalyn Rebellion, and they recalled the youngest princess of Lenayin’s part in it. Few appeared to blame her openly to any great degree, reserving that displeasure for her sister, Sasha. Most believed Sofy to have been in Sasha’s thrall…which was perhaps true, Sofy admitted to herself now, but not in the way they thought.
The Ranash infantry were more orderly too, and far better equipped, with heavier, black uniform armour, shields, helms and even spears. There were no earrings here, no tattoos, no decorations of any kind save a greater number of banners, many denoting family symbols that middle and southern Lenayin disdained, and many eight-pointed Verenthane stars on poles or flags.
The Ranash cavalry, when Sofy reached them, gave her no salute at all. Noblemen watched her coldly beneath heavy steel helms, and heavily armoured regulars chose not to even notice her passage. There were not so many of the Ranash as the Neysh, as all the north bordered onto hostile Cherrovan, and their forces were in much demand at home. With this in mind, the north had conducted early winter forays into Cherrovan before the heavier snows set in, and had inflicted great losses. Sofy had heard tales of entire Cherrovan villages destroyed, and warbands trapped in valleys and slaughtered without mercy. Most officers she’d spoken to seemed to think the thrust would weaken the Cherrovan sufficiently to keep Lenayin secure in the column’s absence. Sofy wondered how they could be so sure that it wouldn’t have just inflamed Cherrovan into a more serious attack in the months ahead.
She cleared the crest of another hill, and saw on the downslope the Ranash bannermen, leading the Ranash nobility. Ahead of them stretched a long column of carts and a few carriages, perhaps forty in all. Sofy galloped past, and could now see the vanguard, a great cluster of red and gold Royal Guardsmen mixed with nobility from each province, each with their own captains and entourage. Further still, several formations of regulars on horseback fanned across the hillsides, perhaps five hundred in all, spread left and right in a great crescent wall across the grass. Ahead of them, a mounted scout made a small figure against a distant hillcrest, and there would be perhaps a hundred more riding yet further before and out to the flanks, some staying close, others now several days’ journey away.
She’d barely begun to pass the central vanguard when a small horse broke from the side of a carriage and cantered to her side. Astride the dussieh was a slim girl in a light red dress over riding pants and boots. Her jet black hair was tied with multicoloured ribbons, and she rode with rare confidence for a Lenay woman.
“Princess!” she exclaimed, irritated as she drew alongside. “Why did you leave me for so long?”
Sofy smiled wickedly. “Did Lord Rydar corner you in the carriage again?”
“It’s not funny!” Yasmyn retorted. “I think he does not speak Lenay so well. I tell him ‘no,’ but he does not understand.”
“Oh, he understands well enough,” said Sofy, highly amused. “He just doesn’t listen.”
“He is an ugly man,” Yasmyn insisted, scowling. “Maybe he will listen if I cut off his cock.”
Sofy suppressed a laugh. Yasmyn’s threats were nothing to laugh at. She was from far western Isfayen, the second daughter of Faras Izlar, Great Lord of Isfayen. Like most of the Isfayen, Yasmyn had light brown skin, black hair and a pronounced slant to the eyes. Alone of all the women of Lenayin, Isfayen women usually went armed, and while they were rarely warriors in wars, they were as little known for gentleness as their men. Yasmyn’s blade was a wicked-looking curved thing that the Isfayen called a darak, and she wore it shoved through the belt above her right hip. Sofy had seen her practising with it, and knew the darak to be frighteningly sharp. Perhaps she should talk to the overeager and rather silly Lord Rydar, before he suffered some unfortunate injury.
Yasmyn had been part Damon’s idea, and part Koenyg’s. All Lenay princesses in a wedding procession required handmaidens, to attend to their needs and to protect their virtue…particularly as this wedding procession doubled as a great army, filled with young warriors eager to demonstrate their virility. The Larosans in particular, Koenyg and Archbishop Dalryn had reasoned, would expect numerous handmaidens on such a journey, for propriety’s sake. Sofy had eight, piled into various carts and carriages.
Damon, however, held a dim view of the useful attributes of most of Baen-Tar’s assorted maidens, noble daughters and ladies-in-waiting. He’d wanted for his little sister a companion who might not only protect her, but actually teach her something. As it happened, Great Lord Faras had seen the war as a grand opportunity to forge closer links between his province and the Lenay royalty. Damon had suggested his daughter might become Sofy’s primary handmaiden on this journey, and Faras had been pleased to appoint Yasmyn to the role. Koenyg was still unhappy about it. The women of Isfayen would hardly be seen, by lowland eyes, as models of propriety and Verenthane virtue.
Sofy didn’t care. She was just happy to have some female company that wasn’t scared of contradicting her.
“Prince Koenyg is mad at you too,” Yasmyn added, trotting at Sofy’s side as they made gradual progress up the vanguard’s flank.
“Prince Koenyg is always mad at me,” Sofy replied. “What did I do this time?”
“He said you were gone too long. You know he does not like it when you ride so far.”
“I wasn’t gone very long!” Sofy scoffed. “I was just a few hills away. I found another old fortress and went exploring. Look, I found a coin.” She pulled out the coin from her belt and gave it to Yasmyn. “I’d like to get it cleaned-maybe I can discover whose it was.”
“If you want.” Yasmyn gave a shrug and tucked the coin into her own belt purse. “I say it was Valdryd the Reaver. He lived around the same time as these fortresses, and he laid waste to all these southern lands. The fortresses must have been raised by the inhabitants to try to stop him.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt they were raised to stop invading Lenays,” Sofy said sadly. “But raised by who?”
“It does not matter,” said Yasmyn. “Valdryd was strong. These men of the forts, they are all dead now. All fell before Valdryd.” She seemed pleased with this. Sofy expected nothing else of the Isfayen. She sighed, and thought how nice it would be if her nation were responsible for making some other contribution to its neighbours other than shortening the lifespan of their fighting men.
A great, roan stallion wheeled from amidst the Royal Guardsmen ahead, its rider spurring to Sofy’s side. Yasmyn wisely made way as Prince Koenyg, heir of Lenayin, brought his warhorse to his sister’s side. Sofy controlled Dary’s head with difficulty, as the horse towered over the little dussieh, snorting and dancing.
“That’s your last ride,” said Koenyg, glaring down at her. “I warned you not to stray so far.”
“I can’t hear you, brother,” Sofy said mildly. “You’re too high above me, please lean down closer else the wind carries your words away.”
“Don’t play games with me,” Koenyg said. “I’ll have enough trouble explaining this to your husband and his family when we arrive in Sherdaine. Fancy a lowlands Verenthane bride gallivanting around on horseback. You risk the future of all Lenayin with your stubbornness, and I’ll not have it.”
Sofy looked up at him for the first time. Prince Koenyg Lenayin was not the tallest of King Torvaal’s sons, yet he made a striking figure all the same. He wore mail beneath a broad-shouldered leather jacket, and metal-studded shoulder guards patterned with the snarling image of a mountain cat. His gloves were overlaid with steel knuckle guards in decorative patterns, his boots bore steel caps and vicious spurs, and his sword pommel was a real Lenay beauty-a plain leather binding beneath a pommel head in the form of an eight-pointed Verenthane star. His face was broad and round, hard and handsome, and his dark hair, free of a helm, was short and perfectly neat. Beneath the mail and leathers, Koenyg’s body was broad and square, with shoulders made for swinging swords in the Lenay style. The Stone Wall of Lenayin, some called him. His expression now suited that name entirely.
“You and Father think to marry Lenayin to the Larosa,” Sofy said coldly. “I intend to make sure that the Larosans will be marrying a real Lenay, not some cheap lowlands imitation. I’ll not dress like them, nor talk like them, nor behave like them should it not suit me. I intend to keep Lenay maids in court, and teach the Lenay tongue to all courtiers. Should they object, I shall protest, and all shall hear of it. Imagine the Larosan shame, that they cannot satisfy the wife of the Reget’s heir, and the shame of Lenayin, to abandon her princess to such an unhappy fate. The alliance should suffer, I am certain.”
Koenyg’s gloved hands flexed upon the rein. Sofy knew that he was grinding his teeth. It was a while before he could speak. “You,” he said in a voice that barely carried above the thudding of hooves, “are dancing on very thin ice, little sister.”
“I am so tired of being pushed around,” Sofy replied, with dark, even temper. “So tired, Koenyg. The peoples of Lenayin are independent, and do not cherish being stamped upon. Sasha reminded you once, and I remind you again. Stop now, before you destroy everything you claim to serve.”
“You do not speak to me of service to Lenayin!” Koenyg snarled. “You are a woman! You do not wield a sword, you do not risk death in war, you live pampered and protected by menfolk on all sides. Your only sacrifice is marriage, in this case to perhaps the wealthiest and most esteemed family in all Rhodia! I think you got a bargain in this deal of life, little sister, yet you whine about it.”
“This isn’t about me, you big fool!” Sofy exclaimed with creeping desperation. “This is about Lenayin. You seek alliance with the Larosa, but on what terms? The people of Lenayin will never accept anything less than equality, yet the lowlanders to a man and woman consider us savages! You tell me to behave, not to ride my horse, to be a good and proper little Verenthane princess…is this to be Lenayin’s fate too? Should we not speak our tongues, and sing our songs, and dance our dances? Should we hide in shame, and beg acceptance from those perfumed Larosan snobs? You’ve bossed and pushed and prodded all of Lenayin into this war, and willingly enough, thanks to the Lenay love of warfare…but good gods, Koenyg, you can’t neglect Lenay pride. You are a commander of Lenay soldiers, how can you expect us to enter an unequal marriage bereft of pride?”
Koenyg almost smiled, grimly. “That’s elaborate, Sofy, even for you.” His temper had nearly faded, a hard, implacable certainty in its place. “So skilfully you turn your little personal dramas into a concern for all of Lenayin.”
Sofy sighed, and hung her head. Arguing with Koenyg truly was like bashing one’s head against a stone wall. She should have known better.
“Less than a year ago, you had no great love of horses, and no skill in riding. Yet suddenly, your selfish pursuit is the foundation upon which the entire fate of Lenayin is balanced.”
“I’ve changed.”
“Aye. To suit yourself, you have. I ask you to change back, to suit Lenayin. You are one person, and Lenayin is many people. My tutors taught me maths, and I can prove it to you should you wish.” He touched heels to his stallion’s sides, and cantered off toward the vanguard’s head.
Yasmyn took her place again at Sofy’s side. “I like arguing with him so much better when he’s angry,” Sofy said glumly. “He doesn’t think when he’s angry. But when he recovers his senses like that, he becomes annoyingly insightful.”
“He scares me,” said Yasmyn.
“Oh go on!” Sofy scolded lightly. “You, a noble daughter of Isfayen, frhtened of a man?”
“A great man,” Yasmyn corrected. Her dark eyes, shining with worship, had not left Koenyg’s departing back. “All great men are frightening.”
Sofy sighed again. Given some time, she might have made a convincing argument that the majority of her Lenay brethren were not, in fact, savages. But the Isfayen were on their own.
Sofy was practising her Larosan in the royal carriage after lunch when the door opened, and Damon hauled himself inside. Ulynda, Sofy’s grey-haired tutor, bowed low. “Shall I leave, Highness?”
“Yes,” said Damon.
“No,” said Sofy at the same time. The middle-aged woman bowed to Damon, opened the carriage’s opposite door and climbed down with assistance from a Royal Guardsman. Sofy frowned at Damon as he loosened his swordbelt. “Damon, truly, she has a bad knee, there was no need to tell her to leave.”
Damon ignored her, pulling off his heavy gloves. Sofy’s third-eldest brother had always looked slightly dark and morose, and now more than ever. He had a lean face, suited more by longer hair than the Verenthane norm. His garb was no less martial than Koenyg’s, but somehow it seemed to sit ill upon his tall frame. He looked sombre, Sofy thought. Brooding, even.
She put aside her book of Larosan poems and folded her hands in her lap, waiting. Damon did this sometimes, simply imposed himself upon her company, and left it to her to probe and discover what was bothering him. He leaned his head back now, rocking as the carriage trundled over rough ground, and stared blankly out of the open window.
“How’s the Larosan coming?” he asked.
“It’s a nice language,” Sofy replied. “They write the most lovely poetry.” Sofy loved their plays, songs and poems, and had taught herself Larosan from an early age. “I would learn faster if you would not dismiss my tutor in midlesson so you could come and chat.”
Damon let the jibe pass. This listlessness worried her. Unlike Koenyg, and the late-yet-legendary Krystoff, Prince Damon was not the most lively and positive of princes. But this was becoming extreme, even for him.
“The last scout says we will not be in these foothills beyond tomorrow,” he said. “We should be in Algrasse the day after that, and then there’ll be farmlands.”
“And fresh food!” said Sofy. She was getting a little tired of the dried fare brought from Lenayin in the supply wagons.
Damon shrugged. “Perhaps. If Lord Heshan is true to his word, and supplies our army along the way. The lords of the Bacosh are not renowned for keeping their word on anything.”
“He’d better,” said Sofy. “We haven’t brought enough. We’d have to forage, otherwise.”
Damon rolled his eyes and grimaced. A Lenay army in the lowlands. Foraging. It seemed dangerously close to “looting.” And “invasion.” The lowlands had lived in terror of a Lenay invasion for centuries, an occurrence only prevented by the overlordship of the Cherrovan Empire, and the prference of the various Lenay regions for fighting each other. Leading an army of thirty-thousand Lenay warriors into the “civilised” lowlands made a great many people nervous, including some noble Lenays who did not trust the civility of their ruffian country cousins. It was a delicate matter all round. That the Larosans were allowing passage across their lands, and had encouraged Algrasse and Telesia to allow the same, was indication enough of how much the Lenays were needed in the war to come.
“So,” said Sofy. “How does your journey fare? Amongst all the grand importances of the vanguard?”
“Still squabbling about who will take the centre in the first battle,” said Damon. “The northerners, of course, insist it shall be them, but Koenyg insists on the importance of deploying heavy cavalry to a useful flank, and Father agrees. Furthermore, the Hadryn insist they will not hold the Taneryn flank, and vice versa; the Isfayen will have nothing to do with the Yethulyn; a grand family of Fyden have discovered they share the same house banner as a family from Banneryd, and have nearly come to blows over its ownership; and the new Great Lord of Taneryn, Ackryd, refuses to ride with the vanguard, and has headed back to his part of the column.”
“Well, that’s Lenayin for you. I don’t know why you let it bother you, Damon. Division is the nature of our kingdom, and always shall be.”
“That doesn’t bother me,” Damon replied tiredly. “It’s just…I don’t know how this is going to work, Sofy. Everyone fights differently, everyone’s in the war for personal advantage and glory. I don’t believe there’s any certainty that the great lords will even obey commands from Father or Koenyg in the heat of battle, if they think they have a better idea. Or if they see the order as advantaging a Lenay rival.”
Sofy did not reply. She was thinking about her sister Sasha. Sasha was Nasi-Keth, and thus loved the serrin. Sasha also loved Lenayin. Yet Lenayin was now marching to make war on the serrin…or at least, on their Saalshen Bacosh allies. Gods knew what Sasha felt, wherever she was now. Sofy was a Verenthane, as were all Lenayin royalty, and most of the nobility. The war was being fought in the name of the Verenthane faith. Yet for all the grand pronouncements of Archbishop Dalryn, and of the devout nobility, and from the northerners in particular, she could not feel any enthusiasm for this war.
The serrin had never chosen to make war on anyone. War had been made upon them, and the occupation of the Saalshen Bacosh had been self-defence, nothing more. They were gentle and kind, save where human aggression had forced them to fight for survival. What the serrin had helped the Saalshen Bacosh to build, in two centuries of occupation, seemed wonderful. And now, her father King Torvaal of Lenayin was leading an army of her countrymen to marry a Lenay princess to the Larosan heir, and forge a holy Verenthane alliance that would bind Lenayin’s future to that of the Verenthane lowlands forever.
That alliance would necessarily mean the reconquest of the Saalshen Bacosh, and the destruction of all the civilisation the serrin had brought to those peoples…but that mattered little compared to the holy Verenthane future of Lenayin. The future was Verenthane, they were told. The Gods had ordained it.
“I’m far less worried about the squabbling of stupid nobles than what the Goeren-yai think,” Sofy said. “Half of this army is not Verenthane, yet we ask them to fight and die for a cause that has not always treated them well. Many of the eastern Goeren-yai have long ties to the serrin, and do not march willingly to fight them.”
“They’ll fight,” Damon replied. “It’s a question of honour. You can question their willingness all you like, but never question a Goeren-yai’s honour.”
“I know they’ll fight,” said Sofy. “I’m just…” She could not complete the sentence. Dare she say it? Even here, to her most trusted brother and confidant? She swallowed hard.
“You’re not certain you want us to win,” Damon said sombrely. “Are you?” Sofy stared at his dark gaze, and bit her lip. She nodded, faintly. Damon took a deep breath. “These are our people, Sofy. We owe them everything-our lives if need be.”
“Oh, I know that! I know that as well as anyone! But…some of these people are evil, Damon. These Larosans. What they’ve done to serrin and half-castes across the border in Enora and Rhodaan-”
“I know,” said Damon. “I know. But it is the future of Lenayin at stake. We have no choice.”
For a while, there was no sound but for the creaking of wheels, the thudding of hooves, and the jangling of harnesses.
“And how is your riding coming?” Damon said after the pause.
“Well, I tried using the rein as you showed me.” Sofy smiled. “Dary was quite impressed. He thinks I’m a little dense, but he tolerates me.”
“Koenyg complains you should not be riding a dussieh. I could get you a warhorse if you’d rather?”
“Never!” said Sofy. “I’ll not trade my little Dary for anything. Besides, Koenyg was just telling me he doesn’t want me riding at all. He’s determined to find fault with everything he does not understand.”
“Ignore him.”
“I do try.”
“I must go,” said Damon, gathering his gloves. “Tomorrow, after breakfast, we’ll go riding together. That’ll shut Koenyg up.” His eyes lingered on her for a moment, as though he wanted to say more. He reached and took her hand. Sofy clasped his and smiled at him. Then Damon departed, slamming the carriage door with a force that was almost anger.
Sofy sighed, picked up her book, and resumed reading. But the beauty of the foreign words escaped her now, and she stared forward instead, out of the windows.
She was not married yet, but Damon missed her already. For a long time they’d been friends. Most of his life, Damon had felt constrained, ignored, put-upon. Eldest brother Krystoff had been brash and flamboyant, a figure impossible to emulate in life, and doubly so in death. Koenyg was the hardest of hard Lenay fighting men, and brooked no dispute from anyone, least of all his younger brothers. That left Damon, awkward, gangly, misunderstood and mistrusting, suspecting all of merely liking him for his royalty, or about to stab him in the back at a moment’s notice. All, that was, except Sofy.
For many years, she had been his solace, and now that solace was being married off for a cause that Damon had little enthusiasm for in the first place. It had been Koenyg’s decision as much as Father’s, and Damon blamed them both equally. Now, Sofy sat and gazed at the banners, and felt a desperate melancholy advancing at the thought of how much Damon loved her, and she him, and how lonely they would be apart for the rest of their lives. Even as she willed herself to be strong, her eyes filled with tears.
Jaryd’s feet ached worst of all. His thighs and knees weren’t much better, and his shoulders were painful beneath a weight of mail, shield and rucksack. Yet he walked, and contented himself to know that tomorrow, he’d have his horse back again. Most other men in this column weren’t so lucky.
Yells from far ahead signalled the coming halt, as the sun dipped low upon the western horizon. Then the shout rose from nearby, and men spread out, found a clear patch of ground for a campfire and swung down their loads with aching groans.
Jaryd sat with one half of the Baerlyn contingent, and took the opportunity to pull off his boots. “Not near me, please,” said Byorn, a hand raised to ward the smell. Jaryd removed a sock, and prodded at a new, bulging blister on his big toe.
“Wow,” said Andreyis. “That’s a beauty.”
“Master Jaryd has soft feet,” Teriyan remarked, his own boots removed and now sitting splayed-legged on the grass, as an experienced warrior might. “Like all lordlings, too much time ahorse has unmanned him.”
Of one hundred and thirty-seven men of fighting age in the Valhanan village of Baerlyn, thirty-one had joined the Army of Lenayin on this march. Enough were left that Baerlyn would not suffer too badly in the months or (spirits forbid) years that they were away. The Baerlyn Council had made the final say on the number, and had refused many who asked. Some men were essential, farmers in particular, but also bakers, smiths and others.
The King had not demanded more than twenty men in every hundred capable of fighting, through all of Lenayin. Much discussion about campfires now speculated as to the size of the Lenayin population in total…thirty thousand marching soldiers made one-fifth of a hundred and fifty thousand fighting men. Which would be only half of the total number of Lenay men, when counting children and elders, making three hundred thousand men in Lenayin. Double that to account for the women, and there were six hundred thousand people in all Lenayin. It was a number so large, many refused to believe it. Scattered for countless centuries across their uncounted rugged valleys, so many people had divided into equally countless tribes, with differing tongues, beliefs and ceremonies. Now, thinking of just how many people Lenayin actually had, Jaryd wondered if any other human land possessed the sheer scale of fractious diversity the gods had granted his homeland.
No wonder we’re always in such a mess, he pondered, gazing about at the long, settling column. There was no thought of fortified camps here on the Telesian plains. Telesia had few people, and had only escaped conquest by Bacosh neighbours because it possessed so little that anyone wanted. Mostly it made a bulwark between the Bacosh and southern Lenayin, and there was no threat to a Lenay army here.
Jaryd set his boots aside and rose barefoot. “Come,?? said to Andreyis. “We’ll spar while there’s still light.”
Andreyis looked tired too, but he removed his boots and rose all the same, withdrawing his practice stanch from within his bundled gear. They took stance on a clear patch of grass, shields laid aside, and practised in the traditional Lenay style-two hands, no shields and little mercy.
Some other men did the same, and most of those pairs were also made up of a youngster and a more experienced warrior. Jaryd now had twenty-two years, but he had once been heir to the province of Tyree, and perhaps the most celebrated sword- and horseman in that region. Since then, he had been deposed, his family dissolved by ancient clan law, his youngest brother murdered and his siblings married off. He had taken refuge in a Goeren-yai village, sought revenge, and found something perhaps greater than that which he had lost. He remained uncertain of exactly what it was that he had found. So many things, he was still discovering every day.
Sparring over, he and Andreyis returned to the campside, and took their places in the circle.
“You should train with those damn shields, lads,” Teriyan told them. “We’ll have to use them soon enough.”
“Foundation first,” said Jaryd. “Shields later. The lad has to walk before he can run.”
“I can walk fine,” Andreyis muttered, rubbing a bruised arm where Jaryd’s stanch had caught him. “I’ve been doing nothing but walking for weeks.”
“When I was a noble,” Jaryd said, lounging back on the grass, “my father once received a travelling entourage from Larosa. Some bunch of idiot lowlands nobility seeking trade, horses and powerful friends in Lenayin. Anyhow, this lord’s heir was seventeen; I was fifteen at the time. He was boasting to me about what a great swordsman he’d become, of how he’d trained with a master-at-arms from his father’s army since he had barely ten years, and how he thought himself more than a match for anyone in Lenayin.”
Men grinned or snorted. In Lenayin, boys held the stanch and learned footwork from the moment they could walk. “I challenged him to spar,” Jaryd continued, “and beat him black and blue from one side of the circle to the other. Then I handed off to my brother Wyndal, who’s another two years younger again, and not much of a fighter, but he did scarcely worse.”
“What’s your point?” Andreyis asked. The lad was a little touchy where his swordwork was concerned. Well, Jaryd supposed, it couldn’t have been easy having the stuffing smacked out of him all through childhood by Sashandra Lenayin. Now, fate had afflicted another great and cocky warrior upon him. Probably he was getting sick of it.
“My point is that everyone can improve. That little lowlands snot thought he was great, but he learned that greatness in the Bacosh and greatness in Lenayin are two different things. Perhaps somewhere out there is another kingdom of warriors who make Lenays look foolish with a blade. Always assume you’re not as good as you will be tomorrow, if you work at it.”
“Listen to the pup,” Teriyan remarked, “spouting wisdom like he knows what it means. You come and talk to me when you’ve seen even half the battles I’ve fought in, youngster1D;
“Aye,” said Jaryd, smiling, “you’ve fought in so many battles that last time we sparred, I could hear your bones rattling.”
“Sparring is not warfare, boy.” Teriyan looked less than his usual good-humoured self at that reminder. “When the formations line up, and you see nothing but Rhodaani Steel from one end of the horizon to the other, then you’ll learn the value of experience.”
Jaryd just smiled, and stretched out on the grass. Andreyis joined him, stretching an arm above his shoulder.
“Am I better than that Larosan boy?” Andreyis asked sombrely.
“That little fool? No contest, you’d kill him one-handed.”
“I know I’ll never be great,” said Andreyis. “I’ve had some of the best training of any man my age in Lenayin, with Kessligh and Sasha, and now you. I should be better than I am.”
“Not true,” Jaryd insisted. “Kessligh and Sasha fight with svaalverd, you’ll not learn a thing from them. I think it might have hurt you, truthfully.” Andreyis looked doubtful, but did not argue. “Look, you’re a tall lad, you’ve not filled out properly yet. Your technique is fine, you just need to get quicker, and that’ll take care of itself as you get older.”
“I’ve heard it before,” Andreyis said quietly. He said nothing more, and lay on his back gazing at the sky.
Jaryd watched him. In truth, the boy had a point. His technique was quite good, and he did quite well in set, predictable taka-dans. But when forced to improvise it often broke down, and he simply wasn’t very quick. Jaryd had never considered what it might be like to be born without the skills he took for granted. Andreyis’s admission bothered him. In Lenayin, for a young man to admit to anyone, even his closest friends, that he did not think himself much of a swordsman, was akin to admitting himself a coward.
Andreyis was an unusual boy. He was clever, but seemed to have no particular skills at which he excelled. He was good with horses, thanks to a childhood working on Kessligh and Sasha’s ranch, but even there, his natural skill with the animals was not the same as that of his younger workmate Lynette, Teriyan’s daughter. Popularity in Baerlyn eluded him, despite (or perhaps because of) his friendship with Baerlyn’s two most famous residents. He had fought in Sasha’s rebellion, and gained manhood, but not the respect that came of a man making his own way, and standing on his own two feet.
When the Baen-Tar herald had called on Baerlyn in the winter, Andreyis had been amongst the first to put forth his name. His father ran a wagon and harness trade with an elder son, and the younger son was dispensable.
This young man expects to die, Jaryd thought, watching Andreyis now. He seemed to find it preferable to continuing to live the life he had. For the first time in his life, Jaryd found himself questioning the obvious truths that all young men of Lenayin had shared since they were old enough to understand such words as “honour,” and “manhood.” Andreyis would perhaps never be a great warrior, but he was a good young man all the same. Was goodness worth nothing to a man, if greatness could not accompany it?
Jaryd’s fingers went to his left ear, and the rings that decorated from the lobe about the outer rim. Still they felt odd, even after the inflammation had died. The rings said that he was Goeren-yai, and no longer a Verenthane noble…but what did his heart say? Once he had been the heir to great wealth and power. When those were taken, he had been heir to honourable revenge. But that heirship too he had failed to claim. Was he now merely a villager, content to live out his days on a Baerlyn farm, to wed some local girl and raise half-blueblood children? And if he was to be content, why was his heart still so full of questions?
When the herald had arrived in Baerlyn, Jaryd had been second only to Andreyis in putting his name forth. His old injuries recovered, he could best even Teriyan in sparring now. He had claimed Kessligh Cronenverdt’s title of the best swordsman in Baerlyn. And Andreyis, Sasha and Lynette’s dear friend, would need someone at his side to look after him in the battles ahead. Jaryd had few ties holding him to Baerlyn, and fewer still to Lenayin itself. Yet all of these combined, however sincere, were not the complete and total reason for his decision to march to war in the Bacosh.
A horse and cart trundled down the column, its tray holding some of the last remaining firewood. A man in the back tossed down an armful to men from each campsite in passing. Two Baerlyn men rose as the cart approached, as men from neighbouring camps also rose, but now the man on the back of the cart stopped throwing down the wood, and the driver accelerated, whipping at the horse’s reins. Men shouted at them to stop, and were met with laughter and rude words in a northern tongue.
“Wonderful,” Byorn exclaimed. “Which shitwit gave northerners the firewood cart?”
“Kumaryn,” Teriyan said darkly. Great Lord Kumaryn, that was. The great lord of the province of Valhanan. All the nobility were united in their hatred for the ex-heir of Tyree, who had refused to die, submit or be captured, and had converted to the ancient ways to escape the laws of Verenthanes. In Lenayin, most commonfolk agreed, the two faiths would get along fine if it weren’t for the arrogant, god-spouting superiority of the nobles.
The cart thundered past, leaving angry Valhanans pondering the prospect of another cold dinner. The hard men of Lenayin were in some ways a pampered lot, Jaryd reflected with a sigh. Food in Lenayin was good and plentiful, and bad seasons rare. Already the column ranks were filled with complaints from men accustomed to going their own way, providing for themselves, and unfamiliar with orders and discipline. Figure that into any long, lowlands campaign. He wondered if the king and Prince Koenyg truly had.
Then he heard more hooves thundering and raised his head. Here along the column came a small figure on a galloping dussieh, skirts flying. Skirts. He got up, staring. Behind her came another girl in a loose red dress over slim, brown legs, black hair streaming like a banner. About them (and largely behind, to the apparent chagrin of a corporal whose expression Jaryd could observe) raced a contingent of eight Royal Guards.
A great cheer rose from the ranks, following the Princess Sofy and her entourage down the line. Jaryd stared in disbelief, as his Baerlyn comrades stood and roared with the rest. What happened next was obscured from view, but after a time of impatient waiting, trying to see over the heads of the risen column, the firewood cart reappeared, this time with a Royal Guard escort. Princess Sofy and her Isfayen companion (handmaiden smed an inappropriate term, for a daughter of bloodwarriors) rode ahead, grinning and waving to the men along the way. The men on the cart unloaded firewood to those who wanted it, with dark expressions. Some of Jaryd’s friends seemed to think it the funniest thing they’d seen in months, and had difficulty cheering through tears of laughter. Northern Verenthanes humiliated by a horse-riding girl. Again. Spirits be good.
As she came close, Jaryd fancied that the princess’s wave faltered a little, her eyes seeking someone in the crowd. She knew this was the Valhanan contingent, surely. And probably she knew that Baerlyn, being eastern Valhanan, marched in the middle of the last third of the Valhanan column. Jaryd’s heart began thumping, to see her come near. Then, somehow, her eyes met his despite the distance and commotion. And locked.
A pretty girl. “Beautiful,” perhaps, was a word best suited to the likes of her elder sister Alythia, of full breasts and ruby lips. The Princess Sofy had now nineteen summers, and was slim and delicate to behold…although not quite as much as in Jaryd’s memory. She wore a plain yet well-made dress over riding pants and boots, her long dark hair fell loose down her back, and her features were fine. Like a little girl, perhaps, all save for her eyes, which were large, dark and lovely. They fixed upon him now, wide and intent, her waving hand frozen in midair. Jaryd’s heart seemed to stop, and his knees weakened.
And then she was past, smiling and waving to other men in the column. Had she just been staring at him? Had it been his imagination? Or had she merely imagined she’d seen him, in the spot in the column where she’d been told he would be?
Teriyan slapped him on the arm, grinning broadly as he watched her go. “She’s got Sasha’s blood in her, for sure. She’s a good girl, that one.”
“Aye,” Jaryd agreed, faintly. Recalling a wild escape on horseback, her slim body pressed to his as they rode close on the saddle. Recalling warm lips against his own, and slim, clutching hands and hungry eyes. A night’s camp all alone on a deserted trail somewhere on the border of Tyree and Valhanan, a blanket on a bed of pine needles. Bare white skin, and red nipples, and smooth, lovely hips. Intoxication, and desperate arousal, her cries and gasps in his ear.
“Aye,” he murmured, watching her leave to the cheers of adoring men. “She’s a good girl, for sure.”
Andreyis was one reason to march to war. So was honour. But neither was the only reason he’d come.