Sasha

by Joel Shepherd

  Edu, the tongue of the Udalyn. So accustomed had she become to the notion that most Lenays would speak at least a little Lenay. But that was a recent event, since the coming of King Soros. Lenayin had been a land of a thousand valleys and, it was said, a thousand tongues. King Soros had brought the warring clans together beneath the Verenthane banner…but not the Udalyn. A century of isolation. And now the boy spoke no language anyone here could speak. One look into his wide, frightened eyes and Sasha realised that she was gazing into the youthful face of antiquity.

  “Damn it,” she said to herself, trying to think. “Tullamayne wrote in Edu, yet all we know is translation. There must be something…”

  From another horse, there came a plaintive, wailing cry. Two Udalyn, Garys had said. Sasha ran to the other horse and found in that rider's lap a young girl, of no more than six or seven. She looked just as bedraggled, weary and dirty as the boy…and now, utterly exhausted and terrified, amidst armoured strangers who did not speak her tongue, she was panicking. The soldier upon whose saddle she rode, a burly Goeren-yai with a thick beard, tried to restrain her thrashing. The wails grew louder.

  “Oh, here, here!” Sasha said, reaching up to the girl as the rider gave evident thought to clasping a gloved hand over her mouth—there were northern riders out in the dark as well. The girl looked down through her sobs and saw Sasha. She held out both arms, instinctively. Sasha pulled her from the saddle and held her, as the girl clutched to her and sobbed upon her cloak.

  “Rysha!” the boy now called out, alarmed. “Rysha, elmat ulyn Rysha!” He struggled clear of his soldier's arms, leaped to the ground with considerable agility and ran to her. Sasha put the little girl down and the boy grabbed her, and hugged her close. There was a desperation in that embrace. A closeness in the way the girl enfolded herself to him. A blaze of protective temper in the boy's eyes, a warning look.

  “Oh, I see,” Sasha said quietly. She squatted before them with effortless balance. And she extended a careful finger, pointing to the boy. “Brother?” she said slowly, eyebrows raised. Shifted the finger to the girl. “Sister?”

  The boy frowned at her, warily. Then nodded. “Sister,” he said, with heavy accent.

  “Rysha?” Sasha asked. “Is that her name? Rysha?” Another nod. “That's a pretty name.” With no hope that he understood. But it was important to keep talking. Silence, with children, was never friendly. “How old are you? Years? Summers?”

  Incomprehension. Most Lenay tongues shared many words. Often, when meeting a nonspeaker, one could simply list relevant words until finding one that worked. Not this time, it seemed. She pointed to herself, then flashed ten fingers, twice. Then pointed to him, questioningly. Realisation, this time. He pointed to himself and flashed ten fingers, once. And to his sister, then seven fingers.

  “And what is your name?” Sasha asked him. Pointed to his sister. “Rysha, and…?”

  “Daryd,” said the boy, with more than a hint of pride. “Daryd Yuvenar.”

  “Greetings, Daryd Yuvenar,” Sasha said with a smile. “My name is Sashandra Lenayin.” A pause as he seemed to recognise that, frowning. “Princess Sashandra Lenayin,” Sasha added, carefully. Only too well aware of the men who surrounded, watching and listening.

  Daryd's frown became a wide-eyed stare. Comprehension at surely the only human woman he'd ever met who wore her hair short with a tri-braid and dressed in pants with a blade at her back. “Synnich-ahn!” he exclaimed. “Tel edan yl Synnich-ahn!”

  Dear spirits, not that again. Sasha put a hand firmly on his shoulder. Even little Rysha was staring at her now, teary but wide-eyed. There was a yellow flower in her hair of a kind Sasha had never seen before, now tattered and half-dead. “Daryd Yuvenar. Udalyn?”

  Daryd nodded vigorously. “Udalyn. Ren adlyn father! King Torvaal! Vyl heryt ais on shyl Torvaal!” Pointing to his own two eyes, desperately.

  Sasha let out a hard breath. That was obvious enough. “Aye,” she said, nodding softly. “I think we can arrange that.” She gave the boy's shoulder a squeeze. “Brave kids. All this way to plead with the king. You could have stopped anywhere, but you didn't.” Didn't trust anyone, she supposed. A century of isolation might do that. And they had been escorted, Garys had said, by one of Jurellyn's scouts; Jurellyn, who had blazed the trail for the Falcon Guard upon the road to Taneryn. Damon had left him behind to watch Usyn's movements and now Jurellyn thought the situation desperate enough to send these two straight for the king.

  She heaved herself to her feet. “Well,” she said tiredly to the surrounding men, “I don't speak any Edu to get a story from these two. But there is one who might.”

  The floor of Lord Krayliss's tent was spread with deerskin, alternately soft and coarse as Sasha shifted her weight where she sat. Lord Krayliss sat on a bundle of rolled skins at the end of his bed, a hard fist supporting his bearded chin. Before him sat Daryd and Rysha, eating hot soup and bread before the central tent pole that was impaled deep into the earth. Several senior Taneryn men sat about the tent, all rumpled long hair, tattoos and rings, in traditional stitched leathers and weave. For all Sasha's discomfort, it did occur to her that the scene might be straight from centuries past, when rulers called themselves chieftains instead of lords, and the ancient ways were the ways of all Lenayin. Only Jaryd, seated uncomfortably at her side, spoiled the scene's ancient purity.

  Krayliss attempted questions of the children as they ate. Both were clearly frightened of the big, bearish man, but the warmth of both tent and food appeared to calm them considerably. Both, however, continued to cast anxious glances at Sasha, to which she would smile and nod encouragement, whilst trying to follow the broken snatches of conversation.

  None of the Taneryn men spoke Edu with any fluency, yet the two dominant tongues of Taneryn were Dyal and Taasti, and both had many words in common with the old Udalyn tongue. Krayliss, to Sasha's moderate amazement, remained both patient and calm. When Daryd (who did most of the talking) did not understand, Krayliss simply invited his fellow yuans to try. What evolved was a three, and sometimes even four or five, tongued conversation, as men attempted various combinations, guesses, or even bits of Cherrovan, to ask questions or interpret puzzling replies. All the Taneryn men gazed at the children with evident fascination, and addressed themselves to the linguistic task with as much enthusiasm as Sasha had ever seen a bunch of hard-headed Goeren-yai warriors address anything so intellectually demanding. A pity there were no serrin present, she thought. They would have been utterly intrigued.

  Finally, Krayliss straightened on his bundled seat, frowning heavily. It suited his face entirely. “They are from Ymoth,” he said heavily. Sasha nodded, having gathered that much already. “Usyn's armies attacked. Thousands of men on horse, the boy says. They flew banners of the Hadryn clans. The spirits made sure these two were found by one of your brother's scouts, who guided them here. That was eight days ago.”

  “Then Usyn's army headed straight for Ymoth after leaving Halleryn,” said one of the yuans, darkly. “No doubt he planned this treachery from the beginning.”

  “The Udalyn should never have resettled Ymoth,” Krayliss rumbled. “It is not far from the valley mouth, amidst fertile lands. Surely it must have tempted them. But the word of protection from successive Verenthane kings has lulled their instincts for survival. Ymoth is too exposed, and the Udalyn too few in strength and weapons to defend it from Hadryn heavy cavalry. I fear the Udalyn have lost valuable forces defending Ymoth. Now, their defences will be fewer. There is no time to lose.”

  “The Udalyn have strong defences,” said Sasha. “Further up the valley, the sides are sheer. And then there are the walls.”

  “And I say,” said Krayliss, with a hardening tone, “that there is no time to lose!”

  Sasha met his gaze firmly. “I agree. We should take at least one child to the king. We need to persuade him that the Hadryn must be stopped.”

  “I have no faith in the farsight and mercy of Verenthane kin
gs,” Krayliss muttered.

  “The farsight and mercy of Verenthane kings has been the only thing keeping the Udalyn alive the past hundred years,” Sasha replied.

  Krayliss's eyes blazed. “The Goeren-yai are not weaklings! We can defend our own! We need merely a leader. The spirits show providence that we should all be gathered together so.”

  Sasha felt her gut tighten in cold anticipation. Krayliss believed someone must lead the Goeren-yai to save the Udalyn, if the king would not. And, of course, he intended that person to be him. That was what he gained by agreeing to leave Halleryn and come to Baen-Tar to face the king's justice. Here, at Rathynal, he would have a far greater audience. There were thousands of Goeren-yai soldiers encamped here before the walls of Baen-Tar. All Krayliss thought they needed was suitable motivation.

  “The Udalyn have defended themselves for a century against overwhelming odds,” Sasha said coldly. “There should be no rush into a crisis because we were too impatient to make a proper appeal to the king.”

  “The king shall wait until all are dead and the Udalyn are no more,” Krayliss replied, his fist clenched.

  “Should you desire my support, Lord Krayliss,” Sasha said icily, “then we shall do things my way. Otherwise, you shall not have it.”

  Krayliss glowered. “When I need your help, girlie, I'll damn well…”

  “Am I the lady of the Synnich or not?” Sasha said sharply.

  About the tent, some men made the spirit sign. Krayliss bit his tongue with difficulty. Daryd and Rysha sat watching with wide eyes. Sasha saw that they clasped hands. “M'Lady,” said one man, seriously, and with deference. “What action do you suggest?”

  Krayliss's scowl grew deeper. “The king,” Sasha told the man, coolly. “He is our best chance. Any other course would risk tearing Lenayin apart. We should not lose faith in our Verenthane brothers. Master Jaryd risked much to find these two children, as did many of the Falcon Guard's Verenthane soldiers. Should we ride to save the Udalyn, Verenthanes should ride with us. Lenayin must remain whole. Should a purely Goeren-yai army attack the Verenthane north, all Verenthanes shall rise against it and all shall be lost.”

  “And should the king not see reason?” Krayliss said darkly. “What then would M'Lady of the Synnich intend?”

  Sasha exhaled a long breath, her gaze settling upon the two dirty, frightened children before her. “Let us hope,” she said quietly, “that it does not come to that.”

  ONE OF KRAYLISS'S MEN ARRIVED the next morning as Sasha went about giving Peg a groom and wash. With the Taneryn man was little Daryd.

  “Best you take him now, M'Lady,” said the man, a lean Goeren-yai with his hair in many braids, but with no spirit-mask. He seemed edgy as he pushed aside the stall gate, casting a final glance each way up the hall. “We're being watched. The lad drew no special mention through the gates, we said he was M'Lord's nephew, but surely someone would notice that we don't talk to him, or that he doesn't listen.”

  “Aye,” Sasha said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. “We'll just hope no one wants to question the feral princess. It would be a first, in Baen-Tar.”

  The Taneryn man gave a wry smile and departed. There was to be a formal welcome to the provinces at Soros Square that morning, with Rathynal proper to start the next day. Things happened slowly in Lenayin, where great meetings were concerned. A holdover, Sasha had heard it said, from the times when Rathynals had taken weeks simply because of all the multiple translations that were required for the discussions.

  Sasha took the faintly bewildered, anxious boy to the back of the stable, from where she withdrew a cloth package from the straw beneath Peg's drinking trough. She unwrapped the bundle, to reveal good clothes of about the correct size for a ten-year-old lad. Perhaps Koenyg had been right to reduce access to Goeren-yai servants and staff. These had been delivered by one of Sofy's staff, and only too willing to help, when Sasha had asked. Whether Sofy herself knew, Sasha did not know.

  “Here,” she said, laying out the clothes. Daryd, however, was staring up at Peg with disbelief and wonder. The Udalyn, of course, would ride traditional dussieh, with perhaps only a handful of lowlands breeds. And, even for a lowlands warhorse, Peg was enormous.

  “Big,” Daryd said, greatly impressed. So that was one word in common with Edu. Or perhaps he'd learned it just now from the Taneryn.

  “Very big,” Sasha agreed. “His name is Peg.” And when that drew confusion, “Sasha,” pointing at herself. “Daryd,” pointing at him. “Peg.”

  Daryd's eyes widened. “Peg?” he asked. “Peglyrion?”

  Sasha blinked at him, surprised…until she realised that that, too, was most likely a northern tale in origin. She'd named Peg for the northern star that formed the sword hilt in the constellation of Hyathon the Warrior. That was an old legend, far predating even Tullamayne—Hyathon had named his sword Peglyrion, for the child stolen from him by the dark spirits.

  “Peglyrion,” Sasha murmured. “Son of Hyathon.” As if hearing his name mentioned, Peg lifted his great black nose from his trough, and stretched toward Daryd…Sasha put a hand on the boy's shoulder, but Daryd did not flinch. Extended his hand for Peg to sniff. Peg, of course, was fine with children. In his experience, children meant treats. And Daryd, who had surely never seen an animal even half Peg's size before, was remarkably brave.

  “Peglyrion,” Daryd breathed, as Peg snuffled curiously at his fingers. Sasha ruffled the boy's hair.

  “We've a little time yet,” she said. “Dress first, then you can help me groom him.”

  Sasha and Daryd attracted little attention as they walked the back lanes of Baen-Tar. Daryd stared up at the stone walls around him as they walked, his stride a little awkward in his new, leather boots. His new clothes fitted him well enough and with his longish, light-brown hair brushed into some kind of order, he looked very much the makings of a handsome young man. He found everything extremely strange, that much was clear. Yet if he was greatly frightened, it did not show, and he walked with the air of someone with important business. It was the first that Sasha had seen of the vaunted Udalyn spirit. She was not disappointed.

  They arrived at the end of a lane and directly opposite loomed the palace, three storeys of grand, arching windows, and intricate stonework. Sasha cautioned Daryd to remain in the shadow, while she peered each way about the corner…there was street traffic, mostly groundsmen or tradesmen, and the clattering of a mule-drawn cart. Opposite and to the right were the great, rounded steps leading up to the main entrance. Further still, on this side of the road, were the even grander, square steps of the Saint Ambellion Temple.

  Sasha pulled up the hood on her cloak—it was not a cold day, with sunlight spilling between broken clouds, but it would not look too suspicious given the gusting wind. She gestured to Daryd to leave his hood down. He, after all, was not the one who would be recognised. She then took a deep breath, grasped the boy's hand and walked around the corner.

  Ahead, several Royal Guardsmen had stopped to talk in the middle of the road. None looked at her or the boy as they passed. From ahead, out of sight beyond where the road bent about the great temple onto Soros Square, there came the ringing of trumpets and the echo of drums. An audible cheer from a large gathering. There were no nobles on the streets because they were all at the ceremonies. It was well, then, that she did not look too important…

  She ascended the great temple stairs, scanning up from within her hood to see the four guardsmen at the entrance, two halberds and two swords. Above, Ambellion's four great spires towered against the fast-moving clouds. Daryd nearly tripped on the stairs to see that sight…and Sasha suffered a flash of memory, as a little girl, spinning on the steps whilst staring upward, for that glorious vertigo of motion and dizziness…The tallest structures in Lenayin, they were, pronouncing Verenthane glory to the lands for many folds around.

  The near guardsman was Goeren-yai and she stopped before him. “I wish to see the king,” she said evenly.

>   “Sorry, lad, there's no admittance outside of service. You'll have to wait.” Sasha pulled her hood back a little and lifted her gaze so that the soldier could see his mistake. He frowned…and blinked. Very few men of Baen-Tar knew her face by sight, there were no portraits of her adorning the palace walls. But then, there was only one woman in Baen-Tar who dressed and wore her hair as she did…

  “Daughter to father,” she said firmly, “I must see the king.” The guardsman blinked again. Sasha took advantage, grasping Daryd's hand and walking past. The temple's huge doors towered overhead, left partly open to admit one at a time. Sasha went through, Daryd following behind, and progressed straight across the atrium. Guards here stood alert on the stone floor, many-coloured windows spilling light upon vases of blue ralama flowers. Flanking the main doorway ahead, two statues loomed—Saint Ambellion on the right, in flowing robes with a blessing palm upraised, and King Soros on the left, tall and armoured, with a Verenthane star emblazoned on the pommel of his sword.

  The main doors were open and the central aisle between pews stretched invitingly ahead. For a moment, Sasha dared to believe that it might indeed be that easy. Then she heard a rattling footstep as a soldier came through the gap behind. “M'Lady! M'Lady, stop!”

  From beneath the statues, guards sprang to life, blocking the way with hands on hilts. Others closed in on her side, and the guards from outside closed at her back. Sasha turned to face the man behind, but that man looked over her head. “Lieutenant,” he said. “Sashandra Lenayin, she claims.”

  Sasha turned again, this time taking Daryd about with her. The lieutenant stared down at her, eyes narrowed beneath his gleaming helm. Sasha pulled back her hood and met his gaze. “M'Lady,” said the lieutenant. “The king is at prayer.”

  “I know,” said Sasha.

  “It is a serious thing to disturb the king at prayer.” The lieutenant's face was free of tattoos, but his hair seemed to have a little length beneath the helm. A single gold ring hung in his left ear. Her hope flared. It was not a great display by any means, but she knew from experience that one should never judge the depths of a man's feelings by the nature of his appearance. “With what emergency would you disturb the king's holy contemplation?”