“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 Saalshen Bacosh, 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 kin
g. 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 horses,” 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 objects. The 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 pri
est 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 stood…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.”
Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three Page 38
