Sasha (13 page)

“Torovans have been coming here for centuries,” Kessligh replied, eyeing the monastery's dark walls with an unreadable eye. “Verenthaneism moved from the Bacosh into Torovan perhaps six hundred years ago. There was a century then, before the Cherrovan Empire, when Lenayin was wide open to Torovan missionaries. Goeren-yai didn't take any more kindly to attempted conversions then than they do now…but if these foreigners wanted to spend the effort hewing stone and living alone in the wilderness, well, they weren't bothering anyone. I'd guess this one is somewhere between five and six hundred years old.”

Sasha nodded—it had that look to it, of age and constant use. “Damon,” she thought to call forward. Damon glanced over his shoulder, turning in the saddle in order to see her past the obscuring helm. “How old a building? Did you see the foundation stone above the door?”

“The year 309, it said,” Damon answered, and Sasha pursed her lips. Five hundred and forty-eight years old, then—it being the year 857 by the Verenthane calendar, since the gods had presented Saint Tristan with the Scrolls of Ulessis, in the Bacosh province of Enora. The number meant something to Verenthanes. To Goeren-yai, it provided merely a convenient yardstick against which to measure time.

“The Cherrovan didn't mind these monasteries?”

“No,” said Kessligh. “Cherrovan weren't bothered by much, back then. Or at least, they didn't find a few monks in the wilderness threatening.”

“There's an old ruin off the road to Cryliss,” Sasha countered. “The stones are blackened, it looks as if it might have been put to fire a long time ago.”

“Yes, but that's Valhanan. There's no monasteries around Valhanan or Tyree. Or much of central Lenayin, for that matter.”

“Why?”

“Because the good, tolerant folk of Valhanan burnt them all down and put the inhabitants to the sword, of course.” Sasha gave him a frowning look, questioning his sincerity. Kessligh shrugged. “Good people can have bad histories, Sasha. And bad people can have good moments too in their past. Not everything the Cherrovan did in their occupation was bad either…a lot of very good, enlightened Cherrovan formed allegiances with Lenays, and worked with them for the common good. The Udalyn especially met and worked with many such. I met some, in the war—Cherrovans who had married into Udalyn families and ended up fighting their own people for the liberation of Lenayin. I don't doubt their descendants are still alive in the Valley of the Udalyn, those that survived. All forgotten today, of course.”

“I thought an enlightened Cherrovan was a contradiction in terms,” Sasha remarked.

“I asked a serrin about that once, when I was young and naive. She was well-versed in Lenay history, her uman had taught her the accumulated tales of more generations of Lenays than any Lenay human could possibly hold in his head. I asked her if, from the serrin point of view spanning countless centuries, the Cherrovan were a particularly bad or barbaric people. She was quite surprised at the impetuosity of the question, coming from a Lenay…or at least an adopted Lenay. “Young man,” she said, “I believe the Lenay expression is that your implication is like the pot calling the pan black.” Over the span of the last thousand years, Sasha, the most barbaric, bloodthirsty warmongers in all of Rhodia were the Lenays. That's one reason the Torovans are so keen on recruiting us to fight in the Bacosh—they hope that the simple fear of a Lenay army in the lowlands will frighten the Saalshen Bacosh into conceding ground without a fight. They tell tales of Lenay warriors in Petrodor that would make your blood run cold. The Lenay ‘enlightenment’, such as it is, is a very recent phenomenon, I assure you.”

“Do you think the coming of Verenthanes with Grandfather Soros made Lenayin a better place?” Sasha asked sombrely.

“A central authority in Baen-Tar made Lenayin a better place,” Kessligh replied with surety. “This conflict between Taneryn and Hadryn may be contained because of what we are doing right now—companies in the service of your father riding to put a stop to it. In previous centuries, that didn't happen. Lenayin is a nation now, not just a squabbling rabble. And Verenthaneism is the glue that holds the provinces to your father's will.”

“So you think Verenthaneism
has
made us better?”

“I didn't say that. Glue is glue. Verenthaneism serves its purpose where fractious ancient beliefs and loyalties could not. It makes Lenayin one. But any other glue may have served as well.”

There was nothing quite so lonely, Sasha thought, as sitting watch at camp after a battle. The log beneath her was hard, the air far colder than a summer night had any right to be, and there was no light but the brilliance of a billion stars. From about the camp came the sound of men snoring, or a horse snorting. Alone in the dark, a watchman's thoughts were his only company. And his memories.

A twig snapped. Sasha stared into the darkness, hands grasping the sword by her side. A rustle of pine needles. “M'Lady Sashandra? Are you there?”

Jaryd's voice. She could see him now, very faintly, a shadow in the blackness. She wondered if he would go away if she remained silent. “I'm here,” she said instead. “Sitting down, on the log.”

The shadow approached. She did not know why she'd invited him over—like most Verenthane nobles, Jaryd Nyvar was a pain in the neck. Perhaps, she thought wryly, she was just as much the fool as those idiot noble girls who giggled and whispered at the tournaments. Sitting alone on guard watch, even a demon of Loth might be welcome company if his eyes were handsome and his shoulders manly.

The log shifted as Jaryd settled beside her, wrapped tightly like her beneath cloak and blankets. “I couldn't sleep,” he explained. He spoke in little more than a whisper, but in the vast, empty silence, it seemed as loud as a yell. “Damn but it's cold!”

“Northerly wind and no clouds,” Sasha replied, standard knowledge for any Lenay who lived in the wilds. “Westerlies can be even worse, the wind comes straight off the mountains. Some Goeren-yai say unseasonal weather means the spirits are disturbed.”

Jaryd hissed through his teeth, rubbing hands together beneath his cloak and blanket. “Well, the stars are beautiful,” he admitted. “Don't the Goeren-yai believe that stars are lucky?”

Sadly, it was too dark for Sasha to see either his handsome eyes or manly shoulders. This conversation, then, would rest entirely upon the strength of his personality. She nearly laughed. “Aye,” she agreed.

“Did you make a wish?”

“No.”

“Then what were you thinking of?” Jaryd pressed.

Sasha sighed. “My mother,” she said quietly.

“Ah, Queen Shenai.” As if he'd known her personally. Jaryd was perhaps only a year older than Sasha—he couldn't have been more than six when the queen had died, in childbirth to Sasha's youngest sibling Myklas. Sasha nearly snorted. “She was very beautiful. My father says she was a wonderful queen.”

“I knew her only a little,” Sasha admitted.

“I can recall the days of mourning,” Jaryd continued, very much in love with the sound of his own whisper. “My family all wore black for seven days. My mother also died young, in childbirth. So sad a thing…and yet so noble, to die whilst giving life. A far more Verenthane end, I fear, than most warriors shall meet—dying whilst taking life.”

“Perhaps if the priests would allow Verenthane women to use the serrin's white powder,” Sasha remarked, “all these women needn't die young at all.”

Though his face remained unseen, Sasha could sense Jaryd's consternation. “But it is against the gods’ will!”

“It's against the priests’ will,” Sasha retorted. “Serrin women can fight, play music, make arts, conduct trade…all the things that men do. It's far easier when you're not pregnant all the time, I gather. I wonder what amazing things Lenay women would discover they could do if given the opportunity.”

“M'Lady…” said Jaryd, appearing to fight down an amazed smile, “what is a woman, if not the opposite to a man?”

“Should a woman then not walk?” Sasha replied. “Not breathe? Not talk and think? You do all of these things, yet you are a man, so surely I cannot be a woman, because I do them too. I think, Master Jaryd, that the only state in which a woman can meet the Verenthane ideal and not mimic any of your manly deeds is in death.”

Jaryd shook his head. “You truly are a strange girl. The serrin spread strange notions from Saalshen.”

“Do they frighten you?”

“Frighten? M'Lady, I assure you…I do not frighten easily.”

“Yet you disapprove of me. Why? Why wish me to be something else, unless you feel threatened?”

Jaryd did not reply immediately. Somewhere in the forest, an owl hooted. “I was raised to be a good Verenthane,” he said then. He sounded troubled. “Yesterday, at Perys, I saw you do things with a blade that…that I had not thought possible for a woman. Barely possible for most men, in fact. I admit, I am confused. I would like to think that had it been me in your place, I would have acquitted myself as well. I am one of the best swordsmen in Lenayin, I know this with all my heart…and yet the artistry with which those men died was…truly amazing.”

Spirits help him, Sasha thought, he was trying. What he admitted was surely no easy thing. “The serrin know many ancient arts,” Sasha told him, somewhat more gently. “The svaalverd is not invulnerable by any means, but when taught by the very best to a capable pupil…well, I have options in a fight that my opponents do not.”

“I said your ways do not frighten me, and I mean it,” Jaryd said determinedly. “I am a swordsman, I can only admire such talent, however unexpected. But I should warn you, M'Lady…I know others who feel differently.”

“I know…” Sasha began, but Jaryd had not finished.

“Noble men,” he said, “my relations amongst them. They have long resented Kessligh's influence with the king. And they speak ill of serrin and Nasi-Keth alike.”

“Kessligh has little enough influence with the king these days,” said Sasha. “And noble Verenthanes have always resented or disliked me for one reason or another. But thank you for the warning. Is there some particular reason I should be worried?”

Jaryd's silence did not help her nerves. Events were in motion, and clearly the lords saw an impending war as an opportunity for self-advancement. War against the serrin would sever all the king's remaining ties with Kessligh and the Nasi-Keth. If it was a chance to get rid of him, then it was surely a chance to get rid of her. She recalled Kessligh's grim warning at the Steltsyn Star, and suffered a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill night air.

“A part of me looks forward to this war,” Jaryd said. “The holy war to reclaim the Saalshen Bacosh from the serrin. You would feel differently, I suppose?”

“Saalshen took that land because they were attacked,” Sasha replied. “They never started the conflict, they only finished it. The Saalshen Bacosh is formidable because it is defended by armies of humans
and
serrin. Most humans seem happy there, and they fight ferociously to defend their lands from the so-called liberators. If Lenayin went, we'd be just another bloody invader. Is that what you want?”

“Those lands are holy,” Jaryd countered, though he sounded less than certain. “I am Verenthane, and the places where the faith was born are occupied by those who do not belong. Any young man wishing for adventure would welcome the chance to ride on such a crusade. And many Goeren-yai I've spoken to said they would welcome a great war, Lenayin has always been a land of warriors, but the Liberation brought peace. Too much peace for many, I think.”

“Serrin did not travel as much to western provinces like Isfayen,” said Sasha. “Goeren-yai to the west may have no trouble fighting serrin, but the story is different here.” She paused. “But you said only a part of you. What of the other part?”

Jaryd sighed. “I've never been interested in the things that my father and uncles love. Wealth and power, more lands, more taxes. They complain endlessly that the nobility has little true power and that the king saves all the authority for himself, and they expect me to be equally outraged…”

He shook his head, gazing into the dark. “And now my father is dying. He sent me to the Falcon Guards when he found out. He said I might learn something. I have the Great Lordship of Tyree waiting for me and…and I can't find it within myself to care.”

Sasha stared at him in astonishment. She hadn't suspected that at all. “You and your father aren't on good terms?” she guessed.

“Never,” Jaryd said darkly. “I try to feel sad for him, truly I do. But it's difficult.” From somewhere distant, there came the mournful howl of a wolf. Another answered. Some people disliked the sound. Sasha had always loved it. Such a cold and desolate beauty.

“I know the feeling,” Sasha said quietly.

Jaryd glanced at her. “The king seems…distant. Though it is said he became far more so, after Prince Krystoff died. He loved Prince Krystoff dearly, as did you.”

“He loved his heir,” Sasha muttered. “All kings must love their heir, the same way a priest must love his robe, or a princess must love her father. It's an obligation, nothing more.”

“He retreated into temple after Prince Krystoff's funeral and rarely comes out to this day,” Jaryd objected. “The first place my father would visit if I died would be the stable, to reclaim my horse.”