Sasha (19 page)

“
Your
lands, Master Farys?” Damon replied, darkly furious. “We stand upon the lands of Taneryn. Do you claim them?”

Sasha's gaze ran along the line of Hadryn faces. All, clearly, were of noble Hadryn families. Their ages varied, from hot-headed youngsters, to cold-eyed, calculating elders. Sasha wondered, her heart assuming a familiar, unpleasant rhythm, if they'd put Master Farys up to it. There were an increasing number of armed men gathering behind to watch.

“We claim no lands,” Usyn Telgar said coldly, his face strained as though withholding some great outburst. “We claim only the satisfaction of avenging our lord…”

“I claim more!” shouted Master Farys, stepping forward to thrust an accusing finger past Damon's shoulder at Sasha…and Sasha noted the silver-haired man at Farys's side give a cold, satisfied smile at the outburst. Farys's eyes were blazing, his face flushed red. “I demand an apology from this false princess! The honour of Hadryn has been slighted! If it were not enough that the god-fearing men of Lenayin had to suffer the insult of a cowardly, woman-chasing, pagan-loving fool of an heir named Krystoff for so long, is it now our fate that we must suffer his sister's—”

Sasha snapped and abruptly strode forward with a hand moving to her shoulder. Kessligh grabbed her arm, but she smacked it away with her other hand, spinning clear to draw her blade as weapons rang clear in the night air all around. Before any could move to strike, Sasha drew back her arm and hurled the sword point-first into the turf before Master Farys's feet. All froze, staring at the quivering blade.

“This dawn, Master Farys,” Sasha said icily, “I challenge you to defend your honour.”

For a long moment, there was only the shuddering whistle of the wind and the flapping of banners. Then Farys laughed, high and slightly hysterical. “You challenge me to a duel?” Disbelievingly. “I cannot fight a
woman
!”

“Then you are a coward!” Sasha snarled.

Farys turned pure white, his newly drawn blade trembling within his hands. “I should strike you down where you stand, whore!”

“With your guards and friends to back your flanks?” Sasha said contemptuously. “Need you so much assistance to defeat a single girl?” Farys's mouth worked open and closed in soundless fury. “No answer? Will you not accept? Snivelling, whining, bed-wetting coward?”

Farys's clenched teeth parted and he let out a great, shuddering roar…yet did not advance. Sasha knew, from the darting eyes of the Hadryn before her, that Kessligh was close at her back, blade at the ready. That alone would make even the bravest, angriest, drunkest warrior think twice.

“I accept!” Farys bit out, hoarse with effort. “Tomorrow at dawn, the lies and myths of the Goeren-yai princess die!”

The silver-haired man at Farys's shoulder placed a hand upon the younger man's arm, lowering his weapon with a final look of cold satisfaction. Farys's trembling hand lowered and he thrust past his companions toward the campfire. All about, there came the sound of sliding steel as blades retreated into sheaths, the line of Hadryn nobility fading back, their departing expressions both angry and smug.

“Sasha?” Damon said cautiously, stepping forward to stand at her side as she retrieved her sword from the turf, and wiped dirt from the end. “Sasha, what did you just do?”

“I defended Krystoff's honour,” Sasha said shortly. Her heart was beating hard, but not with the fevered thumping of fear or excitement. This was colder, more calculating. Damon just stared at her, greatly pained. And it occurred to Sasha then, with only a mild surprise, that he feared for her life.

“Sasha, that was Farys Varan, son of Udys Varan! He's…he's known by all to be one of Hadryn's finest swordsmen…”

“Forget it,” Kessligh said grimly, taking a place at Sasha's side, eyeing the retreating Hadryn with calculation. “Farys's a corpse. It's what happens after he's dead that worries me.”

Sasha could hear the hard displeasure in his voice. She didn't care. When the fury caught her like this, she rarely did.

Camp that night was an abandoned barn on the valley floor. Sasha sat on a hay bale, her back to one corner of the barn's outer wall, where it would shelter her from the wind. On the grass nearby, there were many sheep huddled—Sasha knew only because of the occasional, restless bleating, their woolly shapes mostly invisible in the darkness. She gazed at the stars for a long, long time, thinking of many things, yet of nothing in particular. Sleep seemed far away.

A dark shadow approached soundlessly to her left, from over by the barn's mouth. There was just enough light for her to make out Kessligh's familiar outline, even wrapped in heavy cloak and blanket. He settled onto the hay bale at her side without a word. For a while they sat together, uman and uma, and gazed at the stars.

“It's past time for my watch,” Kessligh said then.

“I won't sleep,” Sasha replied. “I might as well take another watch if I'm to stay awake.”

“The surest way not to sleep is not to try,” Kessligh remarked. “Meditate. I slept well enough during the war in full knowledge that I would fight the next day. You should manage.”

“Probably.” Somehow, she just couldn't manage the energy for one of their customary arguments of technique and method.

“Sasha,” Kessligh said then, with the note of a man about to begin something…

“I don't know what else I could have done,” Sasha cut him off, tiredly. “There are lines to be drawn. In this land, respect is everything, and to tolerate such disrespect is to invite our enemies to attack us. Master Farys crossed the line. The north cannot be allowed to think their Lenay enemies will not fight back, otherwise they will continue to push and push, and soon every group in the land that does not agree with their bigoted ways will find themselves under attack.”

“I agree,” said Kessligh. Sasha turned her head against the wooden barn wall and gazed at the dark outline of his face. “I blame myself, in part. But the way of the uman is not the way of a parent. I cannot dictate your path to you, I can only help you to find your own.

“And I have seen this coming for a long time. I've warned you, haven't I?” Glancing across at her, a faint motion in the dark. “I warned you of consequences should you continue your attraction to the Goeren-yai so openly. I told you the offence it would cause, here in the north in particular. But perhaps, like so many things, it was meant to be.”

Sasha frowned. “That doesn't sound like serrin philosophy. That sounds fatalistic.”

Kessligh shrugged. “I am human, after all. But then it is serrin philosophy, too. Life is a battle, Sasha. All existence is in conflict. We fight the elements, we fight our consciences, we fight the limitations and eventual mortality of our bodies. All things happen by conflict, of one sort or another. The serrin have long recognised this fact. Once, long ago, they fought amongst themselves as we did. But then, having accepted the inescapable reality of conflict, they set themselves toward finding ways of living with it and negating its worst consequences.”

He sighed, softly, and resettled his shoulders against the hard barn wall, seeking better posture. “It was always going to be trouble, Sasha. Choosing you for my uma.” Sasha's eyes strained to make out his expression. “I knew it then, and I know it now. But I could make no other choice. I knew the choice would cause conflict, but sometimes, a forest fire brings new life, and from bloodshed can spring renewal. Such matters are not always ours to decide.”

“Renewal,” Sasha murmured. “That's a Goeren-yai philosophy.”

“Warlike cultures always believe in renewal,” Kessligh replied. “They have to.” And then, before she could respond…“Sasha, I'm not happy that you chose a fight. I sympathise with your reasons, but you are far too important to be risking yourself in such a way. Important to your role as uma, and important to me personally.

“However, what's done is done. And I know you, Sasha. You cannot sleep because you feel compassion. Even for a thug like Farys Varan, you feel compassion because you know your skills utterly outclass his. I know because I've faced the same. When your opponent has so little chance, it feels like murder, and then you must face your conscience.”

He reached from beneath his blanket and clasped her shoulder with one firm, sword-hardened hand. “Feel no pity for him, Sasha. Only you can cause your defeat tomorrow morning. As skilled as you are, any hesitation, any indecision against a man of his talents will surely cost your life. As long as you remain
hathaal
, he cannot touch you. But
hathaal
requires total concentration and technical perfection. In that way, he actually has more leeway for error than you. He fights with strength and strength is always strong, even when imperfectly applied. For svaalverd, strength comes from the application itself. Should the application fail, you shall lose not only technique, but strength as well.”

“I know,” Sasha murmured. “I know that. The edge is fine, even against my opponents in the Baerlyn training hall. At my best, even the best of them is no chance against me. When I fight distracted, or without full concentration, I come home black and blue. But…” and she took a deep, shuddering lungful of cold air, “…you know my moods. I cannot sustain one emotion for any long period. And now, as much as I hated Farys at the time, and still hate him now…it is difficult to sustain. That's all.”

“You hold the Hadryn responsible for Krystoff's death,” Kessligh reminded her.

Sasha nodded. “I do,” she murmured. “But it was not by their own hands. It was not by Farys's hand.” A flash of memory…a priest at the door to the tuition room. Musical lessons—the piccolo pipe, no less. A grave, sombre man, kneeling at Sasha's side. Dawning trepidation and terror. “They misinformed him as to the size of the Cherrovan raiding party. They knew he would charge in and be defeated by superior numbers. Once, I thought I could kill every man in Hadryn for that treachery. But now…” She broke off, unable to finish the sentence. A lump grew in her throat. For a moment, there was only the silence of the vast, cold night.

“Perhaps I don't love him enough,” Sasha whispered. The piccolo pipe, falling to the floor. Breaking. “He was my only true friend. He had faith in me when no one else would. I dreamed of duelling with Hadryn men for vengeance for many years. I should not be having these doubts. If I'd truly loved Krystoff, I'd kill Farys and dance on his corpse.”

“Dreaming is easy,” said Kessligh. “Killing is hard.”

“It shouldn't be,” Sasha said. “Not if you believe in the cause.” She gazed at her uman, her eyes hurting. “How did you do it? You've killed so many. How do you do it, and not doubt?”

“I always doubt,” Kessligh replied, with as close as Sasha had ever heard him come to a gentle tone. “When you cease to doubt, you are lost. But the world is as it is, Sasha. One cannot find peace without accepting that. People die and people kill, and even if we are all flawed people, we cannot achieve anything good if we allow our enemies to defeat us. We must survive, Sasha. You must survive. Now, by your own choice, you must kill to survive. And you shall.”

Sasha gazed at the mist upon the lake as she walked behind her honour guard, six men of the Falcon Guards who had volunteered for the duty. The eastern hills formed a dark, rugged line against the pale sky. High above, sunlight caught distant wisps of cloud and turned them brilliant yellow against the blue. The grass beneath her boots was damp, a not-quite frost that lay across the valley plain and gave the huddled white sheep something to drink with their morning feed.

Her honour guard were leading her toward the bridge where the tachadar circle had been formed upon the Halleryn side of the river. The town walls rose close and the gathering by the stream was well within arrowshot, yet all present were safe from Taneryn archers. No Goeren-yai archer would ever disrupt the solemnity of such proceedings. Along the walls, Sasha could see the dark shapes of many men gathered anywhere they could find a vantage. The Hadryn, it was plain, expected the Goeren-yai princess to die this morning. And they wanted the Taneryn to see it happen, firsthand and personal.

She followed her honour guard across the bridge and up the grassy bank toward the gathering ahead. The men of her honour guard were all in the full armour and colours of the Falcon Guard, save for their helms. Long, braided hair hung free on the shoulders of the three Goeren-yai, who marched with the slow, arrogant swagger of Goeren-yai manhood, a hand clasped to the hilt of each sword and threat in every step. The three Verenthane soldiers walked in a line behind their comrades, with no less intimidating a posture for all their lack of swagger. Three of each, Goeren-yai and Verenthane together. It was a clear and defiant symbol. No doubt the Hadryn, and the Taneryn onlookers from the walls, would notice.