Sasha (22 page)

“What do you mean ‘where have I been’?” Sofy retorted. “Have you any idea how busy I am?”

“Practising ceremonies and embroidering costumes does not constitute busy,” Koenyg answered, presenting his right arm for her to take. Sofy did so, quickly replacing a scowl of irritation with a friendly smile for the guests. Koenyg walked her to the edge of the carpet and all the men stopped talking to look at her. Something in the foreigners’ eyes made her uncomfortable. Not that their gaze was rude—they were far too cultured and dignified for that—but it was…judgmental, somehow.

Koenyg stopped and, to Sofy's surprise, all the foreign men gave a round of polite applause. Sofy smiled, because it was funny, and…well, every girl liked to be praised, even with such strange, foreign customs. She curtsied. And continued to feel uncomfortable, whatever the well-practised charm of her smile.

“Sister,” said Koenyg, with polite formality, “please allow me to introduce Duke Stefhan of the Bacosh province of Larosa.” Indicating a man before her who seemed to stand a little straighter than the others. Sofy curtsied, grateful of the chance to lower her eyes and smother an abrupt surge of distaste. Larosa! She'd heard tales of the Larosa, some of them from Sasha. Larosa was the most powerful of the Bacosh provinces and most of the Bacosh spoke the Larosan tongue, or were influenced by their culture. Larosa had led numerous wars against the Saalshen Bacosh over the past two centuries and had been defeated each time. She had heard what the Larosa had done to captured full or half-caste serrin, with or without the excuse of war, and her blood ran cold at the thought.

“Duke Stefhan, here is my youngest sister, the Princess Sofy Lenayin.” Sofy extended her hand and the duke took it lightly. He wore more rings than Sofy even owned, let alone wore.

“Utterly charmed,” said the duke, with a strange accent that was itself rather charming, and pressed her hand to his lips. The duke had a goatee and dark hair in curls down to his shoulders. A handsome man, Sofy thought, in perhaps his mid-forties…with a funny nose, bulging at the tip. “Your Highness, you are even more beautiful than all the tales I have heard. My companion Master Piet is a skilled bard, I must have him write a song for you so men can sing of your beauty all through Larosa and all across the great Bacosh lands.”

“Indeed,” said another man—Master Piet, it seemed. “You set me an easy task, my Duke. Before such a beauty, words and song cannot but leap to my lips.”

Against all her better judgment, Sofy found herself blushing. “My Duke, Master, you flatter me.”

The duke's eyes widened. “Flatter? No, no, Your Highness, you must not think so!” The accent, Sofy thought, really
was
very nice. All the sounds were soft and all the hard Lenay vowels seemed to flow together with velvet ease. “I have found, in my travels through your beautiful kingdom, that all the mountain women are full of vigour! Perhaps it is the mountain air, or the wonderful water. But you, my Princess, you have a rosy glow to your cheek, and a gleam in your eye, that is unsurpassed. Unsurpassed. And I would be honoured if you would accompany me to the dinner tonight.”

Sofy blinked and looked at Koenyg. The dinner…of course. The banquet, rather, to welcome the arrival of this foreign delegation—the Larosa. They had come for Rathynal, the great meeting of Lenay clans. And Koenyg wanted her to be the duke's escort? Well, that was hardly surprising—she was the one who usually got stuck with that kind of thing. The one who actually liked talking to strange foreigners, or anyone, for that matter.

“Would that interfere so terribly with your busy plans?” Koenyg asked her. Men laughed to hear that touch of dry irony—a brother's exasperation with feminine obsessions. Especially amusing from blunt, pragmatic Koenyg.

“Of course not!” Sofy retorted and favoured the duke with a smile. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad after all. The duke seemed nice and lowlanders certainly knew how to outshine Lenay men with charm. Besides which, there were so many beautiful crafts, songs and paintings she'd seen from the Bacosh provinces; surely the duke was a cultured man and they could talk of such things. Sofy loved the arts above all else…and as for Sasha's tales about the Larosa, well, Sasha certainly
was
prone to exaggeration. “I would be delighted to accompany you to the banquet tonight, Duke Stefhan,” she said.

“Such a treat is more than I deserve,” replied the duke with a sincere smile. “Please, allow me to introduce the men of my companionship.”

“Of course, that would be lovely…” Before her brother could turn away and leave her with the duke, she quickly whispered. “Where is father? I'd thought he would be here?”

“Father is meeting,” Koenyg said vaguely. “He'll be at the banquet.”

“Meeting with who?” Sofy wondered, as the Duke led her first to Master Piet, who also kissed her hand. Everyone seemed to be in meetings, at the moment. All these comings and goings were too much to keep track of. She only hoped that Sasha would come sooner rather than later. Sasha helped things to make sense. And, as much as she enjoyed the flattery of the Larosa men, it was a little annoying to be treated so condescendingly. Not only like a girl, but like a child. Just let them try and do that to Sasha!

“My Lord?” The squire hovered at Usyn's elbow. “My Lord, please come inside. You'll catch cold. Breakfast will be ready soon.”

Lord Usyn Telgar stood atop a rocky vantage on the Helmar Pass, and watched the first light of dawn break over the Aryn Valley. A day's ride north from Halleryn. A day's humiliation. He stood in nothing but his loose pants, boots and undershirt, wrapped in a heavy cloak. His breath frosted before his lips, and the snowline of these first, low mountains of the Marashyn Range began just a short climb up the nearest, rocky slope. Yet he welcomed the cold chill of pain and, through sheer determination, willed his knees not to tremble. It was a small victory, perhaps…but of late, it was the only victory Family Telgar had.

“Call me when breakfast is prepared,” Usyn told the squire.

“But my Lord…” Usyn turned a cold, blue-eyed stare on the young man. The squire paled and swallowed hard. “Yes, my Lord,” he bowed and hurried back toward the tents. From behind, and across the length of the pass, the camp was stirring. Horses snorted in the cold and men chipped at ice puddles for cooking water, or chopped dead wood from the straggly pines.

The dawn was so beautiful. A strip of golden light upon the rugged horizon, fading to yellow, then through all shades of blue and then black in the higher sky. Above, the brighter stars yet shone, glorious in their final moments. Yet the young Lord of Hadryn felt no pleasure in the coming of such wondrous light. The gods mocked him with their grandeur. He had failed, and yet the sun still rose, as if all were right with the world. The gods were infallible. His Verenthane star felt heavy upon his chest. For the first time in his life, he doubted his right to wear it.

The squire returned a short while later with news of breakfast and Usyn turned back toward his tent. Within, Udys Varan sat on a tent stool, hands wrapped about a hot mug of tea, and stared into the central fire. Smoke thickened the air, escaping through a small hole above the centre pole. Several other lords also sat, drinking tea or eating the first strips of bacon that the servant provided. Usyn took his place, received his plate from the squire without a word, and brooded.

From across the fire, Udys Varan looked up. His hair gleamed white in the firelight, his eyes cold. Usyn's father's wisest companion and confidant in matters of war and power. And his most powerful rival. “And what are your plans this fine, cold morning, young Telgar?”

There was a note of dark sarcasm to the old campaigner's voice. A note of accusation. Of disrespect. Usyn struggled to keep a check on the temper that seethed in his gut. “I am Great Lord, Lord Udys,” he said coldly. “My age is none of your concern.”

“Yet you fail to answer the question,” Udys replied. “Have you a plan? Or do you intend to attend the king's great Rathynal as though nothing has happened, like a whipped dog with its tail between its legs?”

“It's not my fault your son was killed,” Usyn bit out. “I recall it was your idea to challenge the Cronenverdt bitch in the first place.”

“My son,” Udys said with blazing eyes and hardening tone, “is but a sign of our predicament! I grieve not only for my son, young Lord of Hadryn, I grieve for Hadryn itself!”

“It's not my fault!” Usyn shouted, rising from his stool. “Not
one
of you predicted that Lord Krayliss would cast himself upon the king's mercy, you all swore to me that he would fight to the death!”

“It is
our
fault!” Udys replied, also rising. “We should have known better than to entrust a pup like you to go charging into Taneryn to avenge your father…”

“Enough!” shouted Yuan Heryd, rising as well. He was a big, wide-faced man. Lord of the northern fortress town of Wayn, directly on the Cherrovan border. “This bickering shall achieve nothing. My Lord, please sit. Yuan Udys, please. You have lost your son, yet Lord Usyn has lost his father. Any more arguing and we shall start killing ourselves, and that shall only make our enemies laugh all the harder!”

Varan nodded, coolly enough, and reclaimed his seat. Gestured for Usyn to retake his, with no small irony. Usyn stood for a moment, trembling. His temper seethed, desiring escape, yet no convenient target presented itself. Family Varan were one of Hadryn's oldest and wealthiest. They had many claims to the Great Lordship of Hadryn and there had been blood feuds in the past between Telgars and Varans…all buried now, within the common unity of the Verenthane brotherhood. Usyn was young, yet he knew that Udys Varan had many supporters amongst the other Hadryn nobles. Given his chance, Udys would make his move and claim Hadryn Great Lordship for himself.

Usyn took a deep, shaking breath. Then he sat, fighting to keep his breathing even. This was intolerable. Never in all his life had he felt so trapped, so humiliated, so…small. He was Great Lord of Hadryn. Long had he dreamed of the moment when his father's title would be his. But not like this. Not like this.

Breakfast was eaten in merciful silence. The coming sunlight coloured the walls of the tent increasingly bright. From about the camp, the sounds of activity increased. Finally, Lord Udys spoke.

“Our predicament is not unique,” he said, wiping the last grease from his plate with a piece of bread. “For as long as the descendants of the Udalyn continue to raise the flag across the border in Taneryn, these troubles will continue. They shall trouble
your
sons, too, my Lord,” with a meaningful glance at Usyn, “and most likely our grandsons and great-grandsons as well. The Udalyn are their inspiration, and our never-ending shame. The Udalyn have survived us for a century, hidden in their valley. We claim to be the greatest of the northern powers and yet we have failed to destroy them. That failure invites others to attack us in the Udalyn's name.”

“This was our best chance,” Yuan Heryd said sombrely. “The death of our lord gave us rights under the crown law. It is the first time we have had the chance to get that bastard Krayliss's head on a pike. Now, he's run cowering to the king for protection.” He shrugged, always pragmatic. Yuan Heryd had that reputation. “We tried. At least he may lose some credibility amongst his own people. He is belittled. We have achieved at least that much…and who knows? The king's law may see his head on a pike yet.”

“The satisfaction shall not be quite the same,” Usyn said icily. It was difficult to speak of such things so calmly as Yuan Heryd. But his father had respected the man. He would try, whatever the effort. “Sometimes I wonder whether our support for the crown law is worth all the trouble it gives us.”

“Young Lord,” said Yuan Varan, leaning forward on his stool, with meaning, “disabuse yourself of such notions. There are only three provinces of Lenayin that follow the true, chosen path of Verenthane. The other eight are weak; their Verenthane nobility lacks the courage to whip their local pagans into shape. In those eight, the pagans remain a majority. We cannot control them on our own. We control them through the king; for the king, though flawed, is a true Verenthane. Such are the unpleasant compromises of power, young Lord. Your father knew it and you should learn it also.”

“That wonderful king,” Usyn said sarcastically, “has spent the better part of my life gallivanting with pagans and serrin demons from Saalshen.”

“The better part of your life, yes,” agreed Udys. “You have barely nineteen summers, my Lord. An eyeblink in the passage of power. For a moment, the king favoured the serrin. That was the doing of Cronenverdt—that man has caused more damage to Lenayin than any other in our history. He claimed credit for great victories against Markield, and the king, believing in omens, foolishly believed that the Nasi-Keth and their serrin puppet-masters were responsible.

“But now, Cronenverdt's influence is fading. He tried to mould the king's heir into his own image, but failed. The second heir, gods be praised, is a true Verenthane, and the north holds his favour. His wife—your dear sister Wyna, my Lord—is the Lenay queen-in-waiting and has already borne us a Hadryn heir to the Verenthane throne. The king now reads new omens, most especially in the birth of his heir's son, and favours the north once more.