Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three

by Shepherd, Joel

She heard laughter downstairs, and a snatch of song. A wafting scent of food cooking. Her stomach grumbled. She sighed, took a deep breath, and sat up slowly. Her arms and legs were quite a sight. The cane scars varied from short to long, with colours from pink to purple to deep, wine red. The deeper ones had scabbed over, and the whole mess pulled on her skin whenever she moved. Her stomach, sides and legs were purple and black with bruises. Her burns looked appalling. They scarred over now, with great blisters breaking the crust. Some blisters had burst, and now oozed. She hoped the skin would not heal badly, and restrict her svaalverd in the future.

  On that thought, she got up, pressed her hands to a wall, and stretched her naked body upward until the scars began to scream in pain. She held it as long as she dared. Kessligh would tell her. She could hear his voice in her head, instructing her not to slacken off because of a few cuts and burns.

  The only clothing in the chamber was a robe. Her fellow travellers, however, had not made the mistake of depriving her of her weapons. She tied the robe, took up her sheathed sword, and left the room. Her bare feet careful on cool stone steps, she descended into a common hall. Men and several women looked up from long tables, now stocked with steaming food. They hailed her, and gestured a seat on a bench. Sasha took it, alongside Lord Elot, and opposite young Torase, who had accompanied her and Errollyn on their rescue of Alythia and Lady Renine. Torase, Sasha had gathered, was Lord Elot’s nephew. Lord Elot, in turn, was cousin-by-marriage of Family Renine.

  These family connections had once been all important in Rhodaan. Such ties had compelled men to fight and die. Blood had been the law here. Now, Sasha surveyed the bare stone of the hall, the fireless hearth, and the simple wooden tables and benches, and saw the extent of nobility’s fall. The banners and heralds on the walls seemed faded, and the cold, square stone was nothing like the grand, ornamental architecture of modern Tracato. These people were riding toward the past and would take all of Rhodaan with them if they could. Once, Sasha had considered that a terrible thing. Now, having seen what she’d seen, she wondered.

  “Apologies for not waking you,” said Lord Elot, “but you seem to wake yourself when hungry, I’d thought to let you rest.”

  Sasha managed a faint, acknowledging smile, putting meat and vegetables onto her plate. A maid came with wine, but Sasha took only water—Rhodaani wine was very good, and she did not think this bout of clearheadedness would last long if she indulged.

  “What castle is this?” she asked quietly.

  “This is the holding of Family Ciren,” said Lord Elot. “These forested hills were once farmed, with a clear view of surrounding lands. The serrin took them away, when they came. All the family lands. Gave them to the peasants. Now, all that remains is what you see.” He gestured about. “A simple place, yet it is home to some, and hospitable to all friends beneath its roof.”

  “We shall win it back,” said Torase defiantly, his young face proud. “The serrin and the peasants do not understand, they think this was merely a system. They do not understand the power of family, and of blood. Family Ciren has ruled these lands for more than fifteen generations. We were enemies with them mostly, in that time, yet we respect their name. Today, we stand with them as brothers, to reclaim what is ours. And reclaim it we shall.”

  Sasha could think of nothing but Alythia. How beautiful she’d looked, gracing noble halls much like this. Such halls had been her element, and even those as drab as this one would have brightened with her presence. These were Alythia’s people, in style if not in blood. These men’s enemies had cut off her head, and left it lying on the cold stones of Sasha’s cell, but an arm’s length from her manacled feet. Sasha had once felt sorry for all who suffered beneath feudalist oppression. Now, she could not care.

  “How far are we from the border?” she asked.

  “Another four days’ ride,” said Lord Elot. “Soldiers here do not seem to be aware that you may be riding this way. Tracato is in confusion, possibly no one has sought to send word. Or if word comes, it should be days behind.”

  They meant to fight with the Army of Lenayin, Sasha knew. Or with the Army of Larosa, or whichever would have them. Tracato, to these men, was now under a foreign occupation. The Larosa, they’d decided, were the liberators. And the Army of Lenayin would find its morale much boosted by the return of one princess, and its soldiers much angered by news of the other’s death. Angry Lenays would surely prove more formidable in battle. It was with such motivations that these noble men of Rhodaan now smuggled Sasha toward the border.

  Sasha stayed only long enough to eat her meal. Upon returning to her chamber, she found by the lamplight that a red rose had been placed on her bed. For a moment she was puzzled, and sat on the bed, smelling the rose, and wondering why it seemed familiar. And then she recalled…it was a tale her friend Daish of the Tol’rhen had told her, about a castle that had been cursed by a wicked witch. About the castle’s grounds, nothing would grow, all the crops had died and the gardens withered. The peasants had gone hungry, winter had settled upon the land, and all the castle’s noble family had fallen into a deep sleep.

  One day, an orphan girl from a neighbouring village had crept into the cursed castle. Wherever the orphan girl went, winter receded, the snows melted, and all the flowers bloomed. The curse was broken, and all knew that this orphan girl was in fact the lost daughter of the land’s king, stolen away by the very same wicked witch who had cast the evil spell. In much of the Bacosh, princesses were frequently represented in illustration by flowers, and presumed blessed with the special powers of fertility. Now, this castle’s maids placed a rose upon Sasha’s bed, and considered her presence a blessing upon the land.

  Well. She wondered.

  And recalled, suddenly, another part of the tale. She got up gingerly, and walked to the window sill. There on the stone, she found a sprinkling of salt, to ward away witches and other evil things. Errollyn had spoken of travelling to less enlightened parts of Rhodaan, and having salt cast at him by village folk who could ill afford its waste. In the Larosan telling of the tale, of course, the wicked witch was serrin.

  Sasha sat back on her bed, rose in hand, and felt suddenly, desperately sad. She wanted to see her sister Sofy once more. She wanted it so badly it hurt.

  SASHA STOOD BEFORE HER HORSE IN THE UNDERGROWTH, and gazed across the river. Hills rose to either side in the moonlight, shrouded in forest. Across the moonlit water was Larosa. The enemy. But the ally of her nation, and the current location of its army. She had to get across.

  After a moment, a man returned to the small column and signalled that they move further along. All twelve riders remained dismounted, in undergrowth too thick to make for easy riding. Much of the border was like this, farmlands left fallow over two centuries for the forest to reclaim. In some cases, the Rhodaanis had even replanted the trees themselves. It made for easier infiltration across the divide, but small infiltrations were not as worrisome to the Rhodaani Steel as large invasions. Through such forests, it was difficult to move large formations, and since the Steel was purely defensive, the only force troubled by these forests were the invading feudals on the other side.

  Infiltrations, too, could work both ways. Rhodaani woodsmen and scouts for the Steel scoured these forests. So did the talmaad, on both sides of the border. The latter in particular made certain that Larosan scouts did not risk the trees lightly, especially at night. Many insisted the forests were haunted, as many Larosan scouts who ventured in, never ventured out.

  After a while of picking a tangled path along the riverbank, another halt was indicated. Sasha waited. She glanced at Lord Elot’s grim, bearded face, half-awash in a patch of moonlight, and wondered what it was to betray one’s nation. She’d been accused of that herself, once. Perhaps betrayal meant different things to different people. And perhaps nations, too.

  There was a commotion ahead, and some shouts. Men pressed forward, leading their horses. Sasha came finally to a spot amidst the trees where several
Rhodaanis surrounded five ragged-looking peasants. Men and boys, the eldest having perhaps thirty summers. Several held sickles as weapons, warding those confronting them. Another held a spear. From their movements, Sasha guessed they had little more than basic weapon skills. Rhodaani militia were granted far better training, and were usually commanded by retired Steel officers.

  Lord Elot strode forward, and growled at the men in Larosan. Sasha recognised the tongue well enough, but understood barely a word. Some things, however, she did not need words to understand. There was fear in the peasants’ eyes, yet also defiance. The older man gesticulated grandly as he explained himself, and asked Lord Elot to do the same. And seemed incredulous at the reply.

  A brief conversation followed between Lord Elot and another lord. Elot grunted assent to a request, looking disgusted. The other man drew his blade, with several others.

  “No,” said Sasha, loudly enough for all to hear. “Let them go.”

  “M’Lady, they are Larosan peasants, come to help the Rhodaani Steel. They will report to them, and we shall be known.”

  “That was your choice when you chose to come this way,” Sasha replied. “Those in Tracato will figure it out anyway, if they have not already. These men seek only to do the reverse of what you do—to cross the border, and fight for the other side. Let them go.”

  “These are our enemies now!” another, younger man protested angrily. He took a step, sword raised.

  Sasha put a hand to her hip, where she now wore her blade in unaccustomed position, and half drew from its sheath. “Let them go,” she repeated.

  Everyone stopped. Two days ago, she had felt the worst, shivering and aching in fever, and barely able to stay on her horse, or hold down anything she ate. Yesterday, she had come to feel better, her head clear and appetite strong. Today, she had managed some basic taka-dans, in full view of all. All knew the fate of Reynold’s men in the Justiciary, having asked after them. Sasha had told them. None had seemed to disbelieve her.

  Now, Lord Elot put hands on his hips and kicked at the dirt. Then gave a rough order, and the men’s swords were sheathed once more. They parted, and the Larosan peasants moved warily forward, staring at Sasha. They inclined heads to her, in thanks.

  “Nasi-Keth?” one asked, looking dubiously at the sword on her hip.

  Sasha moved her hand from sword to shoulder, where it would normally be were her shoulder not such a mess, and nodded. “Nasi-Keth. Does anyone speak Torovan?”

  More wary looks. One nodded. “A little,” he said in that tongue. About them, the Rhodaanis were making to move on once more. “You go…Larosa?”

  Sasha nodded. “I am Lenay. I go to my people.” Ah, the man seemed to say, his mouth forming that silent word. “Why do you go to Rhodaan?”

  “Some Larosan…” he searched for the right word. “Frighten? Yes, frighten of Rhodaan. Frighten of serrin. But we?” He pointed at his comrades. “We not frighten. We know serrin good. Rhodaani good. Larosan lord, bad. Bad men, they beat us, they kill us. They take our woman. We fight for Rhodaan.”

  “You fight with the Steel?” Sasha asked dubiously, looking at their makeshift weapons.

  “No,” said the Larosan, a little sheepishly. “Steel great warrior. We not great warrior. But we know Larosan land, Larosan lord, Larosan men, Larosan horses…” he ticked off his fingers, eyebrows raised at her, inviting comprehension.

  “Ah,” said Sasha. Not long ago, she would have wished him luck. Now, she only wanted to be with her people. She nodded, and stood aside. The men bowed again, and made their way into the undergrowth.

  Soon, at another pause along the riverbank, Lord Elot brought his horse to her side. “The border has long been crossed by the likes of them,” he said darkly. “Some serrin make contact with peasants nearby, and buy their loyalty with medicines and the such.”

  It was the same two centuries ago, Sasha knew, across the border between Saalshen and Rhodaan. As the peasants had come to like the serrin better than their own lords, the lords had become more and more fearful. That had led to more hateful speeches against the serrin by the priesthood, and so on, and so forth. Hatred and fear, the two sides of the coin of power.

  “Why don’t more Larosan peasants come to Rhodaan?” she asked.

  “Like he said, most believe the priesthood,” Elot replied. “Others will not come if they cannot bring their entire families, for those remaining will be treated badly. And in truth, few Rhodaanis encourage contact with Larosa. Some serrin doing so have got into trouble. It makes instability, like the last time, between Rhodaan and Saalshen. Most Rhodaanis want fewer wars, not more. So they leave most Larosan peasants to their superstitions of serrin demons and corrupted souls across the border, in the hope the lords and priests will not get too upset, and start another war.”

  “Didn’t work,” Sasha observed. Lord Elot said nothing.

  Finally arriving at a suitable location, they crossed the river with no further troubles. By midnight, they had emerged from the forest and were riding across moonlit fields. This is Larosa, Sasha thought, gazing about. At first, it did not look particularly different.

  Then, as they found a narrow trail between fields, they passed a small village tucked between a narrow strip of trees and a lake. There were no pretty stone walls and painted window shutters here. This village huddled close, with mud walls and thatched roofs, surrounded by small animal enclosures. Beneath a full moon on a warm late spring night, all seemed well enough. But Sasha wondered at the winters, when the ground turned to mud and those narrow walls struggled to hold the chill winds at bay. About the village, lands lay unused, perfect for villagers to expand their animal pens or plant a new patch of greens. Sasha knew very well what fate awaited them should they try.

  Soon, a castle came into view. There was a village nearby, and sheep in the fields beside the road. Even from this distance, Sasha could see banners hanging above the main gate. It seemed somehow sinister, a hulking stone block upon the Larosan fields. Years of warfare in Lenayin had led to some walled cities, yet castles remained unknown. Now, more strongly than at any time since she’d left Lenayin eight months ago, Sasha truly felt that she had arrived in a strange and alien land.

  Kessligh and Rhillian walked down a moonlit street in the heart of wealthy, feudalist Tracato. Five more Nasi-Keth walked with them, but it was little more than show. If the feudalists wanted them dead, so it would be. They walked at the heels of a pair of armed city men, and took some relief in the night’s normality. From the nearby docks came the clanging of a bell.

  “Thank you for not sending pursuit after Sasha,” Kessligh said to Rhillian.

  “She was too long gone when I found out,” Rhillian replied. “I could not have caught her.” There was no accusation in her tone.

  “Thank you all the same.”

  “I am unhappy about it,” Rhillian continued. “She is only one blade, but she has skills in generalship, and a following amongst some of the Goeren-yai. If she rallies them, Lenayin could grow stronger.”

  “There was nothing I could do,” Kessligh said quietly. Rhillian flicked him a sideways stare that suggested she disagreed. “I have never seen her like this.”

  “I saw her,” said Rhillian. “She suffered.”

  “It’s not just the pain.” The harbour came into view, down the road between rows of buildings. “She doubts.”

  “You fear you have lost her. You brought her here to see your vaunted Nasi-Keth, and the grand future of humanity that you promised. Neither has made a good impression. Her foundation is gone, her hope for the cause, her belief in you. She runs to her people because they are her last remaining foundation. Save for Errollyn.” That last with an unpleasant, dry irony.

  “She leaves Errollyn because she won’t force him to fight his own people,” Kessligh replied, edgily. “He would have followed her. He follows her too much, she knows that. She will find it difficult enough herself, to fight on that side, she would not inflict it upon Errollyn
.”

  “Human emotion is a fickle thing. Humans change on a whim.”

  “Serrin too,” said Kessligh. “You used to be a nice girl.”

  “Petrodor changed that,” Rhillian said bitterly. “You did not mind your tongue on my failings there. Now you play precious.”

  The guiding pair of cityfolk turned down a dark, narrow lane. Soon they came to a nondescript door, and knocked a rhythm on the wood. A panel slid back, a password was given, and the door creaked open. The corridor beyond was narrow and gloomy, leading to a ramshackle courtyard beneath an open sky. Beyond the courtyard, a wide door led to a kitchen, grain and flour scattered about, signs of breadmaking, trails leading to a clay oven in the courtyard.

  Two more city men awaited in the kitchen, blades drawn. Kessligh judged from their posture that they were ex-Steel, probably officers. A further door opened, and a small figure was ushered into the kitchen. There came barely enough moonlight through the windows for Kessligh to see his plain city clothes and longish hair about a slim, fine-featured face. The boy came forward on his own, to stand between the two big guards. Kessligh’s five Nasi-Keth remained in the courtyard, all armed, as were he and Rhillian. It would not matter. Rhillian’s upward glances told him that her serrin eyes had found archers in the courtyard windows. Crossbowmen, no doubt, and numerous. The corridors were too narrow for great swordplay, swinging the advantage back in the favour of Steel-trained men with no need for flourishing strokes. This was a death trap, should their invitees wish it to be.

  “You came,” observed the boy Alfriedo Renine. His high voice was calm. Regal, Kessligh thought. Though not in a manner anyone familiar with the Lenay royal family might recognise.

  “Alfriedo,” said Rhillian, and made a faint bow. “You seem well. I am pleased.” Kessligh stood with both hands on his staff. The boy seemed to frown, as though displeased that he did not bow as well.

  Behind Alfriedo, one of several shadows scoffed loudly. “Be silent, Aleis,” said Alfriedo. And to Rhillian, “I do believe you, Lady Rhillian. I was not mistreated at the Mahl’rhen, quite the contrary. I was unhappy that some of your serrin comrades were killed in my rescue. I would have preferred a negotiated settlement. You have my condolences.”