Sasha

by Joel Shepherd

  “Soon, young Lord, there shall be none but Verenthanes as far as the eye can see and the serrin demons shall be wiped from the earth. But it takes patience, my Lord. I may not live to see that day. Even you may not. But it will come, and our everlasting glory shall be all the greater for our part.”

  “You speak fine words, Yuan Udys,” said Usyn. “But our concerns are more immediate. You tell me that the Taneryn problem will remain for generations, but I cannot now assault Taneryn with Lord Krayliss under the king's protection, for the king's law forbids it! What is the central rule from Baen-Tar truly worth to us if it does not allow us to deal firmly with that which threatens us?”

  “My Lord,” said Varan, shaking his head with impatience, “you did not listen. Taneryn is little enough problem. They are poor, and weak, and led by fools. They trade little, grow poor crops and gain little in wealth and power.

  “The true problem, my Lord, are the Udalyn. As long as we allow them to resist us, we invite all our enemies to attack us. And our chance to finally end this problem is now.”

  Usyn stared at him. About the campfire, all men did. Usyn frowned. “But the king's law prevents us from attacking the Udalyn just as it prevents us from attacking the Taneryn without just…”

  “No!” said Udys, triumphantly. “The crown law was written by King Soros a hundred years ago. It recognised the boundaries between provinces as immutable, and a lord's rights within those boundaries as sacrosanct. The king's historical protection of the Udalyn Valley is an understanding, my Lord, not a law. A verbal understanding between King Chayden, Soros's son, and the pagans. It is nowhere in the writings, and had I a copy of the document here before me, I could show you.”

  “But…but…” Usyn rolled his eyes in exasperation. “What does it matter? Previous lords of Hadryn have tried to end the Udalyn, but each time the king stopped them! The pagans have spies within our borders and the Udalyn always summon help! We shall have yet another royal army descending upon our heads before we can breach the Udalyn's wall. And if they trap us within the valley, we are finished!”

  “My Lord,” said Udys, very intently. His eyes drew them all in, conspiratorially. “Some of us, from all three northern provinces, have been in contact with Prince Koenyg. He wishes for the Bacosh war most strongly. Yet he knows that the war shall be unpopular amongst the pagans. He needs us, my Lord, and the king also needs us. There shall be no war without our support or else the holy lands in the Bacosh shall remain occupied by the serrin demons and there shall be no allegiance with the great power of a united Verenthane Bacosh.

  “Prince Koenyg is a strategist and holds his father's favour. He needs us so much, he has made it known that he will not stop us from any pursuit not explicitly forbidden by the king's written law.”

  There was a silence within the tent. Usyn felt hope flare, hot and bright. A hope for success. A hope for glory. For the rise to the Great Lordship of Hadryn that he had always dreamed of. A chance to be worthy of his great, departed father.

  Udys saw the look upon his lord's face and gave a tight, hard smile. He knew. “My Lord,” he said quietly, “I pray of you. Let us remove this weeping sore from the honour of Hadryn once and for all.”

  Sasha sat on her chair in the Steltsyn Star, a mug of ale in her hand, and gazed at the blazing coals of the central firepit. About her, the merriment of mealtime continued with music and laughter. She had recited her telling of the ride to Halleryn, which had been met with much applause and shouts of approval from a room crowded full of long-haired, tattooed and ringed Goeren-yai men. But now, while they caroused, she only felt like sitting near the glowing warmth of the fire, and watching the ripple of red and orange across the surface of coals.

  Soon, Teriyan dragged a chair and sat beside her, with a head toss to keep his long red hair clear of the chair back. “So Kessligh's got a visitor?” he said. His tone suggested he'd had several ales already…but Teriyan was one man Sasha knew could hold his drink.

  She nodded, taking an absent sip. It was her first, and only, ale of the night. Kessligh didn't like her drinking the stuff at all, but she liked to be sociable…more than she liked the taste, in truth.

  “His name's Aiden,” Sasha replied, somewhat sourly. “He rode all the way from Petrodor, just to talk to Kessligh.”

  “About what, do you know?”

  Sasha shrugged. “Nasi-Keth business, I guess. I was booted out of the house before I could hear.”

  “Could you be a little more enthusiastic?” Teriyan suggested, taking another pull at his ale. “You'll be heading to Rathynal soon, you'll get to see your Sofy again.” Sasha smiled. “Aha, I thought that would do it. Cheer up, kid, you look like Lynie did when her pet rat died.”

  “Lynie had a pet rat?”

  “She did until the dog ate it. She nearly killed the poor mutt, never seen a boarhound so frightened.” Sasha grinned, well able to imagine that. “But then she teamed up with you and your horses, hasn't looked at a rat since.”

  “I think it's a Goeren-yai thing,” said Sasha. From the other side of the room, there came a roar of triumph—some of the men were playing a game with knives and a throwing board. Another night, and another mood, she might have joined them.

  Spirits, she'd loved it when she'd first come to Baerlyn. There were animals here. Kessligh had brought six classy mares with him, gifts from the king's stables, and her new life meant being around them all day. Every morning when she'd awoken within the timber walls of her new home, the horses were waiting for her. And there were the dogs, the two cows, birds in the trees, deer in the woods, the occasional bear, big and small wildcats, and wolves howling at the moon.

  Well, she'd not loved it entirely at first. Kessligh had been a hard taskmaster. There were no more servants prying into her life, which was wonderful…but also, there had been no one to make her bed, prepare her meals, set the fire, fetch water, chop wood and all the other small tasks that took her away from her precious horses and important svaalverd work.

  There'd also been Kessligh's training. She'd thought it would be fun, at first, for she'd loved training on her own or with Kessligh and Krystoff in the privacy of the empty stables in Baen-Tar. But Kessligh's new routines were far more advanced than the little exercises he'd suggested in Baen-Tar. These included painful stretches every morning and evening, long runs up the hill behind the ranch, and endless, tedious sessions of repeating the same, basic swing over and over and over again.

  Soon enough, the little loud-mouth brat princess had begun whining and complaining about her aching shoulders, her blistered hands and the sheer, mind-numbing boredom of not getting to do any real fighting. And she'd been tired all the time, and sometimes ill, and winter had been well on its way. Kessligh had explained, time after time, the necessity of learning the svaalverd's most basic forms until they became as second-nature as walking and breathing. But her tantrums had grown worse, especially in the freezing downpours and howling gales of autumn.

  After one particularly hysterical tantrum, Kessligh had dragged her from her room where she'd flung herself on her bed, and sat her down before the fireplace. He'd explained to her, in a very serious way, that if she no longer wished to be his uma, she could always return to Baen-Tar and become a proper princess again. She'd wear dresses, learn manners and etiquette, and practise needlework instead of svaalverd. There'd be no more pain, no more exercises and stretches, no more bruises, strains and blisters. But there'd also be no more horses, no more wide open spaces, no more hiding on the forest ledge along the hillside to spy on the wolfcubs playing before their den. No more spear fishing in the little stream at the bottom of the hill, or swimming in the waterhole beneath the little falls on a warm summer's day. No more crackling log fires in the evenings, and the cabin filled with the sweet smell of burning old pine, a book of serrin poetry on her lap as she slowly unravelled the beautiful triple and quadruple meanings of the Saalsi tongue.

  That had been her last great tantrum. Oh, she'd had
more minor ones since—far too many to count, in fact. But she'd stretched, and run, and done push-ups and sit-ups until her arms, legs and stomach ached all over, and she would stagger about the stables like a cripple.

  Then, one day in midwinter, with the snows piled high on the ground and the trees all gleaming with icicles, Kessligh had taken her down to Baerlyn for a special occasion. It had been Midwinter's Day, her very first in Baerlyn. The locals had gathered for a great feast outdoors, as the weather had been chilled but fine. There had been fires for warmth, and music, dancing and laughter. Everyone was there, men, women and children, and Sasha had been amazed to see that they paid no greater respect or homage to the village councilmen than they did to a poor pig farmer, or to Denys the simpleton, who spoke funny, and laughed far too much, but was never teased for it. Some had even dared jokes at Kessligh's expense—they'd only gotten a smile from him, but a smile was as good as a belly laugh from Kessligh Cronenverdt.

  There'd followed contests of swordwork, including limited-contact contests for the children. Sasha had swung her child's stanch through those same old boring, predictable strokes Kessligh had spent so much time drilling her on…and to her amazement, the boys contesting her would meet no firm contact with their wooden blades, and lose their balance, or expose their defences, or fall flat on their backsides as their footing entangled. Not always, of course—often it hadn't worked, and she'd get a belting for her faults. But if she did it just right, and concentrated as hard as she could…well, the boys had protested, fumed and sulked, but they could not deny her ability. Some of them had simply shown respect, including some of the older men who'd ruffled her hair and told her she was good. It had given her a feeling she'd never known she'd craved so badly until that moment. Pride, and belonging. In that moment, it had truly dawned on her that she could never go back to the life she'd once had. She was no longer a princess of Lenayin. She was Sashandra Lenayin, uma to Kessligh Cronenverdt, of the Nasi-Keth.

  She'd never complained of Kessligh's training techniques since. Slowly the exercises had become less painful, the runs less exhausting, and the blisters had grown over with hard callouses. Lynette had become a permanent feature at the stables, and then Andreyis. She'd begun to know the townsfolk and their children better. She had had fights and made friends, had played seek and chase along the dusty lanes and been scolded by the women for riding one horse or another too fast through the town. She'd been born in Baen-Tar, in the great royal palace of Lenayin, but this, Baerlyn, village of Valhanan province, was her home.

  Jaegar dragged a chair across to sit opposite, his back to the fire and a plate of roast meat and vegetable raal on his lap. “Greetings all,” he said, “sorry I missed the tale. Upwyld filled me in. Most impressive.”

  “And where were you?” Teriyan challenged his village headman and good friend. “When our girl was standing on the table, pouring out her latest great glory to we mere mortals?”

  “Rony has a light fever,” Jaegar explained, utterly unruffled, taking a big mouthful. “Took her to see Cranyk. He gave her some foul-smelling serrin stuff. Rony wouldn't eat it. From there, it became a grand battle.”

  Sasha and Teriyan grinned. Rony was Jaegar's youngest daughter, now four years old. Jaegar had four girls, no boys, and contempt for anyone who thought that made him unlucky.

  “Who won?” Sasha asked.

  “Well I'd like to claim a great victory over the forces of darkness,” Jaegar admitted, taking his cup from the floor to wash down a mouthful, “but in truth, it was a brutal, bloody draw. Rony suffered a spanking, but Sharyn now has to devise a way to bake a flatbread with the damn stuff inside it, so Rony can eat it without noticing the taste.”

  “Sweet spirits,” Teriyan groaned, a hand to his face with the agonised expression of a father who sympathised.

  “The most devious and stubborn of adversaries, little girls,” Sasha said knowingly.

  Jaegar nodded, eating hungrily. “The very worst.”

  Sasha rode back to the house with a lit torch in one hand. Chersey did not mind the flame, nor the ghostly shadows that it cast across trail and trees. Sasha rode at a fast canter, partly because the distance was short and Chersey knew the road well, and partly because she'd learned to be cautious of possible ambush, even here so close to town. One did not become uma to Kessligh of the Nasi-Keth without learning to be careful.

  She was greeted upon the open lower slope by a raucous barking of dogs from the verandah. Light glowed in the house's windows, spilling across the verandah where it raised on stilts above the gentle slope. She rounded the huge vertyn tree, and the chicken run and wide vegetable garden that it sheltered, and continued upslope to the stables. Once in her stall, she gave Chersey a rub in case of sweat that might chill, made certain she had feed and drink for the night, and fastened the heavy blanket over the mare's broad back and about the sides.

  Then she checked on each of the sixteen long faces that peered over their respective stall doors at her, having no doubt of Kessligh, Andreyis and Lynette's care, but always wishing to check for herself. Her horses were her life, at least as much as her swordwork. She fussed over them for a while by the light of an oil lamp, more for the pleasure of their company than because they required the attention. Then she made her way down the long, dark slope toward the dim light of the house ahead, with nothing to guide her steps in the pitch, silent blackness than memory of the grassy ground.

  Kaif and Keef greeted her on the rear verandah, taking time from crunching a huge bone to sniff at her with wagging, shaggy tails. The open kitchen was warm, with evidence of a recently prepared meal on the bench. Beyond the partition, Kessligh sat with his Nasi-Keth guest, Aiden, before the open fire of the main room, sipping tea.

  “Evening!” said Aiden brightly, rising from his chair. “Did you have a good time?” He had a round, cheerful face and a flat mop of black hair. His build seemed verging on fat, yet there was a poise to him, and a balance, that perhaps only a fellow swordsman would notice.

  “A wonderful time, thank you,” said Sasha, kneeling by the fire to warm the kettle on the stand above the flames. “Please sit, we Lenays aren't much on formality.”

  Aiden sat, with a beaming smile. His accent was very broad and his manners very Torovan, Sasha thought.

  “I was telling Kessligh,” said Aiden, as Sasha walked to close the main room shutters that Kessligh had left open to give her some light to ride home to, “that in Petrodor, there are few inns with women. Petrodor is very conservative place, yes? Very Verenthane. No women drinking, no women dancing…”

  Sasha finished the second shutter's latch, and noted the several large books lying beside Kessligh's comfortable chair. Serrin books, she recognised them. She wondered what he and Aiden had been discussing all evening.

  “Very few women here either,” Sasha replied, standing before the fire. Kessligh's expression remained distant, barely listening. Something about it made her uncomfortable. “Mostly the women are stuck at home, cooking and caring for the children. I have to admit, I don't know many of them half as well as I should. And have precious little to discuss with them when I do get a chance to talk. Our lives are just so different. At least with the men, I can talk horses and swordwork.”

  “Very few women in the Nasi-Keth too,” Aiden added, watching her curiously. “Yuan Kessligh is great visionary. No Petrodor women achieve your success. Not all serrin teachings taken so seriously by humans, yes?”

  Sasha snorted. “He's a great visionary?” Half-serious, half-joking. “What about me? I did it, not him.”

  Aiden laughed. “True, true,” he conceded, cheerfully.

  “Besides, how much vision does it take to tell the difference between a woman and a lump of coal?” With a sideways glance at Kessligh.

  Aiden shrugged, broadly. “In Petrodor, I think maybe a lot,” he said.

  Kessligh usually rose to that bait. Tonight, he barely noticed. Sasha looked at him, uneasily. “So what did you two spend all eve
ning talking about?”

  Aiden's good cheer faded. He looked at Kessligh, waiting for him to speak. Sasha had often wondered what Kessligh was to those Nasi-Keth in Petrodor with whom he corresponded. What was he to Aiden? A leader? An inspiration? A “great visionary”? His achievements in Lenayin had certainly made him a significant figure for Nasi-Keth everywhere. But he'd been gone for thirty years, and lived so far away…

  “Aiden brings news from Petrodor,” Kessligh said. “Saalshen's representative there, Rhillian, is making waves. I've spoken to you of her before.”

  Sasha frowned. “I remember. Isn't she Saalshen's second in command in Petrodor?”

  “Serrin concepts of rank are not easily translated,” Kessligh replied. “There is no rank, only ra'shi. Respect. One earns ra'shi through deeds and experience, so it's not always easy to tell who's truly in charge. Rhillian's ra'shi grows powerful across all Saalshen, not just Petrodor.”

  The kettle began to boil. Sasha knelt and put two teaspoons of ground tea leaves into the teapot where it sat beside the fireplace. “So what did Rhillian do?” she asked, taking the tea cloth so that the kettle's handle did not burn her fingers, and pouring. “She's been agitating for Saalshen to get tough, hasn't she?”

  Kessligh looked at Aiden, inviting him to speak. “The holy brotherhood are saying she attacked the archbishop and tried to steal the Shereldin Star,” said Aiden.

  Sasha stared at him. “The Archbishop of Petrodor?” she asked.

  Aiden nodded. “It is nonsense of course—if she attacked the archbishop, he would be dead. Everyone knows this, yet no one likes to say it. No one will admit the true power of Saalshen in Petrodor, and that no one is safe from the serrin, if the serrin don't want you safe, yes?”

  “But…the Shereldin Star?” Sasha remembered the kettle in her hand, and put it down before the fireplace. “Isn't that that stupid artefact all the Verenthanes rave about?”