“Some uman you turned out to be!” Sasha snarled at him, retrieving her arm from behind and struggling to a seat. Still the knife was in her hand. “The first one gets killed when you're not looking and then you nearly do the second yourself!”
Anger blazed in Kessligh's eyes. “Sasha…you stupid, contemptible idiot!” He was really angry now. She liked this much better. “Never draw a blade on me! I've warned you many times, never surprise me like that! I have no safe reflexes, Sasha! They're all dangerous! All of them!”
“You're never to blame for anything, are you?” Sasha retorted, far, far beyond any semblance of self-control. “Godsdamn it, you're always accusing me of immaturity. I have twenty summers and I know I'm not perfect! When's it going to dawn on you, Master Swordsman?”
Kessligh stared at her, incredulously. “What in the nine hells are you…?”
“You've never thought about anyone but yourself in your whole blasted life, have you? You didn't ride out from Petrodor all those years ago to save the poor, suffering Lenay people—you did it for yourself! Yourself and your own stupid, blind conviction that your view of the world is all powerful!
“You didn't save Lenayin because it was the right thing to do! You wanted payment! And you took it! First you took my brother, the person I loved most in all the world, and then when it got him killed, it's suddenly my turn!”
“Don't you ever suggest I never cared for Krystoff!” It was as close as Kessligh had ever come to genuinely yelling at her. “I loved him like a son!”
“And why is it that you never had your own real sons? Why not inflict this destiny upon your own flesh and blood? Why do it to someone else's?”
“Because it's not the Nasi-Keth way!” He stared at her, kneeling on the lower slope, seeming torn between anger and consternation. Then he put both hands to his hair, as if to tear out several great handfuls. “Gods blast it, Sasha, what do you want? I gave you the life you wanted, didn't I? You were miserable in Baen-Tar, you swore anything would be better than that life! Deny to me that you don't love it here?”
“I never thought I was a pawn in one of your damn power games!” she yelled at him. “You never told me it was all a set-up!”
“I've tried to tell you so many times,” Kessligh continued, with increasing forcefulness, “there's no easy choices in life! Your father is king and he suffers for it daily! Damon is a prince, yet he fears the weight of that responsibility! I chose the Nasi-Keth, for they seemed to offer the best chance of escape from the many hardships and terrors of human life.
“And you…you had the choice between a princess of Lenayin, or uma to a senior Nasi-Keth. You chose me. And I put it to you, my uma, that you have had precious little cause for complaint until now. Damon has suffered far worse than you—all your siblings have. Royalty has its responsibilities and hardships, but you…you were born for this—running about in the wilds, rearing horses and learning svaalverd. It's in your blood; you'd choose this life whether I was your uman or not. Did you seriously think it would go on being perfect forever? There's always a trade, Sasha. Always. Not even you can escape it.”
“You lied to me!” Sasha yelled at him. It wasn't fair that he should start making sense, now of all times. He couldn't be right. She wouldn't let him. “You never told me what it was all about! I didn't volunteer for your blasted war!”
“You did,” said Kessligh. Rain plastered hair to his brow. Blood trickled a slim rivulet to the point of his jaw. His eyes were as grim and as penetrating as Sasha had ever seen them. “If you think hard, you'll even recall the day.”
Sasha stared at him. Recalling, suddenly, the eyes of Master Daran, fixed upon her with a similar, grim contemplation. She'd been curled on her bed in her Baen-Tar chambers. The Master himself had attended her chambers, after she'd attacked the maid posted there previously with a knitting needle and drawn blood. Stray shards of glass had crunched beneath his foot, where the remnants of the fitting mirror had escaped the maids’ brooms. Several other items of her chambers’ furnishings had disappeared after she'd smashed them, or tried to. She'd been restrained, and slapped, and forcefed her dinner until most of it had ended on her face, in her hair or up her nose.
Eventually all the fury, and all the urge to break and to smash and to vent her despair upon any person or object within reach, had dissipated, and left her drained, weak and vacant. Krystoff was dead, and her life was over. And so she had sat on her bed, watched over by Master Daran, the senior court official in whose meticulous hands had rested the education and deportment of all the royal siblings. Master Daran had brought in his notes and papers, and had worked at her desk with a scribble of ink and quill, positioned precisely between bed and door. Occasionally he had glanced her way, to find she had not moved. Occasionally he had tried to talk, and to reason, to no result.
Then, Kessligh had entered. Sasha recalled her mild surprise. She could not recall Kessligh ever having entered her chambers before. He was a godlike figure of the barracks and the training hall, he did not belong in such mundane places as little girls’ bedrooms. He had asked Master Daran to leave them. Then he'd taken the chair Master Daran had been sitting on and carried it to her bedside, all resplendent in uniform purple and green, with squeaking leather boots and a cloak that was almost a cape.
He'd sat upon the edge of the chair and leaned forward, with elbows on knees. His expression had been very sombre and very subdued. Sasha remembered the wash of relief that it had been Kessligh who'd come and not one of the others. Not one of the stupid jesters with their silly shoes and sillier hats, with bells and whistles and stupid tricks to try and cheer her up. Not one of the matrons, with their commanding, “motherly” presence, to which she was somehow supposed to respond in some fit of feminine empathy. And certainly not big brother Koenyg, who had never particularly liked Krystoff, and could certainly never replace him. She'd looked at his rough, uncompromising face, and had known that, unlike the others, he would always take her seriously. Here was a man who would never lie to her. Would never baby her and coddle her with soft lies and half-truths. Here was a man to whom her slim, remaining sanity could cling to.
“I offered to take you as my uma that day,” Kessligh said, above the hissing rain and distant, rumbling thunder. “I told you what that would mean. I said that you would become Nasi-Keth and that your future would belong to them. And when you agreed too hastily, I left you to think about it for seven days. On each day, I explained it to you again. I told you, Sasha. And you agreed. Had you stayed where you were, I think it quite likely you would have given up hope and died.”
“I didn't…” There were tears in her eyes. Suddenly, she was back in her room in Baen-Tar and could feel the leaden, oppressive weight of dark stone all about. The grief and despair were as fresh as before in overwhelming intensity. “I didn't think I'd have to kill people! I didn't think so many people would hate me!”
Kessligh leaned forward intently, his expression incredulous. “Sasha, you picked that fight against the Hadryn all by yourself! I warned you what would happen! Now you decide you don't like the taste of blood? What's the matter with you? What do you really want, Sasha? All the rest of this is manure. What do you want?”
Sasha's face contorted in grief. “Why are you leaving me?” she barely managed to sob, as composure left her completely. “I can't do this alone. I can't abandon the Goeren-yai. And now you're going to leave me, and I can't do this on my own…”
Emotion struggled to find purchase in Kessligh's eyes. He grabbed her and hugged her close as she sobbed upon his shoulder in the pouring rain upon the sodden, darkening hillside.
“There's a war coming, Sasha,” he murmured in her ear as she clung to him, desperately. “The Nasi-Keth must be strong, for only we can find a middle way between two opposing sides. Yet the Nasi-Keth in Petrodor are divided and weak. I must return to them. And one day soon, you must join me there, for I cannot do what needs to be done without you.
“And yet, when I took
you as my uma, I swore that I would give you the freedom to walk your own path.” He released her and took her face in both hands, to stare firmly into her tear-blurred eyes. “Walk the path, Sasha. Go to Baen-Tar. Reason with your father and brother. Save that idiot Krayliss's neck, if you can.
“When the Nasi-Keth spread out from the Bacosh hundreds of years ago, they thought to bring their enlightenment to all human lands, not by force but by reason. I knew that when I took Krystoff as uma, and I knew it when I took you. Don't be angry with me. I love Lenayin. I owe much to Lenayin. When I rode here from Petrodor as a young man, I swore that I was doing it not so that Lenayin could serve the Nasi-Keth, but so that the Nasi-Keth could serve Lenayin.
“I have taught you as best I can, Sasha. You have surpassed my wildest hopes.” Sasha could only stare, disbelief joining grief upon her face. “I have given so much to Lenayin, but now, I find I have no more left to give. But you do. Whatever you set your mind to, you can achieve. It is your gift. Be very careful what you set your mind to, for not all achievements are great. But know also that you make me proud beyond words.”
Sasha embraced him again, and sobbed some more. Kessligh held her. They were cold, and wet, and shivering in the gathering darkness. And yet, despite the fear and grief, Sasha knew that she had not been betrayed. That, for the moment, was enough.
They had been riding for three days and Daryd did not know where they were. The scout that the man Jurellyn had sent to guide them rode ahead, keeping to small horsetrails that sometimes seemed to vanish in the undergrowth. It was raining now, a steady, miserable downpour, and in places the mud sucked at Essey's hooves like a live thing. It was lucky, Daryd thought, that he always rode prepared, even about the fields of Ymoth. Otherwise, he wouldn't have brought his and Rysha's cloaks, which now kept the worst of the rain and chills off their heads. But Mama always warned them of how fast the weather could change and he never rode out without a cloak in the saddlebag.
Thoughts of his parents made him more miserable still. He did not know if they or his brothers and sisters were still alive. The wet saddle was chafing his thighs and his back was sore, but he dared not complain. Behind him, Rysha was no doubt suffering even worse—she was a good enough rider, but not as good as him. Also, she wore a dress, which had to be pulled up for her to sit properly astride. Her legs had been chilled, until the scout had given her a spare pair of his own pants to wear under her dress. She rode with them now all bunched up, her feet lost in the long, trailing pant legs as she clung to Daryd's back.
The scout's name was too difficult for him and Rysha to pronounce, so they just called him the scout. Daryd thought he might be from Tyree, but he wasn't certain. The scout had led them over the Aralya Range, which had been exhausting and treacherous. Always the scout had seemed nervous on that path and several times had led them off the trail to hide in the forest as riders had passed going the other way. The scout seemed to have very good eyesight and had ridden ahead of them a lot to make sure they weren't surprised. Now that they were down on the flat once more, he stayed close and made sure they didn't get lost on the narrow trails. Or maybe they were lost, Daryd thought. The scout didn't appear to be lost, though. He always seemed to know which way to go.
“Daryd, I'm hungry.” Daryd reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of berries the scout had given them. He gave them to Rysha.
“Here, be careful. Don't drop any.” She didn't. They had better food, for proper meals, but these were good for snacks, and the scout was good at finding them growing wild. The forest here was thick and, despite his wet clothes and aching muscles, Daryd thought it very beautiful, even in the rain. The pine trees seemed to be taller here and the spirits that lived in such trees would be great and majestic. He wondered if the trees would keep getting taller all the way to Baen-Tar. Maybe they'd be so tall in Baen-Tar, he'd barely be able to see their tops.
The berries tasted funny, but Rysha ate without complaint. Rysha had barely complained all trip, not even when the rain had started and her legs had chilled. Daryd had been amazed, and still was. She used to complain about everything. She'd slept against his side on the hard ground at camp and had sometimes squirmed and whimpered in her sleep. But, come the next morning, she'd risen bleary eyed, eaten breakfast and even insisted on helping Daryd to saddle and feed Essey. It had been enough to freeze all of Daryd's own complaints on his lips. If Rysha was not complaining, certainly he was not allowed to.
“Daryd,” she said after a while, as the rain was easing. “Why are we going to Baen-Tar?”
“To meet King Torvaal,” Daryd explained. “King Torvaal can send armies to fight the Hadryn.”
“But what about Lord Krayliss? Auntie Sedy says Lord Krayliss is Lord of Taneryn and that he's our friend.”
“Papa says Lord Krayliss is just a big bag of wind,” Daryd replied. “Lord Krayliss says he's a relative of the Udalyn, but he doesn't do anything. Papa says he's not really interested in helping us, he just says that he is, so that people will like him.”
“But why doesn't he do anything? If he was really a relative, he'd help us.”
“Taneryn's a different province, Rysha. They speak Taasti, there…and a few other things I can't remember. They worship the spirits differently. Papa says they don't really know very much about the Udalyn. They haven't really seen us for a hundred years. And Taneryn's not very powerful, and not very rich, not like the Hadryn. So Lord Krayliss just makes a lot of noise, but he couldn't really help us if he wanted to.”
“What language does the king speak?” Rysha asked, as Daryd ducked a low, wet branch.
“Lenay. Everyone around the middle of Lenayin speaks Lenay, like the scout.”
“It sounds funny.”
Daryd smiled. It felt good to smile. He'd barely smiled in three days. “Probably we sound funny to them, too.”
“You sound funny,” Rysha retorted. “I don't.” Then, “Is the king a Verenthane?”
“All the big nobles and royals are Verenthanes,” said Daryd. “Taneryn's the only province where they're not.”
“I don't like Verenthanes.”
“How do you know that?” Daryd challenged. “You've never met any Verenthanes.”
“The Hadryn are Verenthanes,” Rysha objected. “They call us nasty names because we're not Verenthanes too, I heard Auntie Sedy say so.”
“The Hadryn don't count,” Daryd said firmly. “Even lots of other Lenay Verenthanes don't like the Hadryn.” A thought occurred to him. “I think the scout might be a Verenthane.”
“Do you think?” Rysha sounded unhappy at the prospect.
“Well, I can't tell if he's Goeren-yai. So he might be Verenthane. Why don't we try and ask him?”
“No, Daryd, dooon't,” Rysha complained. Finally, a real Rysha whine. Daryd grinned.
“Papa says King Torvaal's a good man,” said Daryd, changing the subject. “He's done nice things for the Goeren-yai before. I'm sure he'll help us, if we ask him.”
They ate a lunch of bread and dried meat by a small stream that rushed and gurgled from the recent rain. The birds were different here, Daryd noted. Little blue and black bobtails flittered and chirped around the streamside bushes. Yellow flower birds snapped at insects above the rushing water. Some small, plain brown birds with long beaks pecked at things on the water surface near the streamside, where the flow was not as fast. The only birds Daryd recognised were the black and green wood ducks that swam further downstream, where a big, rotting log had formed a still pool behind a dam.
The scout saw him watching the birds and tried to name them for him. Daryd managed some of the names, but others he couldn't pronounce. The scout had perhaps thirty summers, Daryd reckoned—not as old as Jurellyn had been. He was quite clean for a scout or woodsman, too, with short hair and well-mended clothes. He washed every morning and after meals, and even put some funny-smelling paste on his teeth after dinner. The more Daryd thought about it, the more he thought the scout was probably a Vere
nthane. He'd heard that Verenthanes liked to keep clean, and this man had no rings, braids or tattoos whatsoever.
At midafternoon, the scout took them off the narrow trail and into the forest. They stopped behind some undergrowth where the scout gestured for the children to stay with the horses and be quiet. He then disappeared down a shallow hill. Daryd stood guard while Rysha supervised the horses as they grazed on some wild grass. It felt different, to put a hand on his knife hilt and pretend to be a real warrior. He'd seen real warriors fight now, and he'd seen them die. He'd always been frustrated by childhood, but now he found himself longing for that childish innocence. Back then, he could be a real warrior any time he liked, just by imagining. Now, no matter how hard he pretended, he remained just a little boy far from home, cold, lonely and frightened.
It was not long before the scout came quickly back up the hill, but now he had some men with him. These certainly were Goeren-yai men, all five of them, with long hair, earrings and the left side of their faces covered by the spiritmask. They stared at Daryd and Rysha as they approached, like men creeping up on some rare and magical animal. They spoke amongst each other, with wonder in their voices, and Daryd heard the word “Udalyn,” over and over. The strange men made him anxious, but the scout seemed to trust them.
“Friend,” the scout said in Edu—the one Edu word he'd been quick to learn. Pointing to the five Goeren-yai men. “Friend.”
Daryd nodded, warily. There must have been a village nearby, he realised. Just out of sight beyond the trees. The villagers had the look of men who worked hard, with worn clothes and hardened hands. Two of them were very big and the others, although middle size, all looked strong, even the older ones. All wore swords at their hips and knives in their belts.
“Eyastan,” said one man, extending a hand to Daryd, a friendly smile parting his bushy beard. “Eyastan, Yuan Udalyn.”
A greeting, Daryd reckoned. “Eyastan,” he replied and clasped the other man's forearm. The man's smile grew to a grin. Each of the men said hello in that way. One of them seemed to ask for the Edu word for hello and repeated it over and over delightedly when Daryd told him. With Rysha they did not exchange the warrior clasp, of course, but rather shook her hand gently and patted her on the head. Rysha stood close to Daryd's side, anxious and shy.
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