Sasha (56 page)

A man was running along the bank, feet slipping on stones in his haste. Lieutenant Alyn moved to intercept, but Tyrun barked a command and he was let through. “M'Lady!” he said, full of haste and alarm, but no apparent fear. It was not an attack, then. He seemed instead…bewildered. “M'Lady, we found someone on the road behind, following us. The scout did not know what to do…he thought…he thought perhaps it was best to come to you.”

Sasha frowned at him, then looked beyond to where several soldiers were accompanying a somewhat scrawny dussieh pony along the riverbank. Upon the saddle sat a most unmartial figure, small and swathed in an oversized cloak. One soldier led the pony, while others moved alongside, and yet more stopped what they were doing and stared. Sasha began walking, her guard moving with her…and then, with a sickening twist of fear in her stomach, she broke into a run.

The soldier with the pony's halter stopped as she arrived, and another assisted the slim, shivering figure from the saddle, as carefully as handling eggshells. A dress was visible, briefly, beneath the cloak. Sasha grabbed the girl by the shoulders, pulled back the hood and stared disbelievingly at the young, pale, teeth-chattering face within. Sofy.

“Oh no,” was all she could think to say. If Koenyg had been inclined to spare her neck before, he certainly wouldn't now.

“Sasha!” Tears filled Sofy's eyes, part exhaustion, part fear, and partly at the sight of her sister's horrified expression. “Sasha, I w…was scared! K…Koenyg was going to m…make me spend more time with those t…tyrants…and…”

Sasha grabbed Sofy's hands in her own gloved ones and held one to her cheek. “Hells, you're freezing!” She pulled aside the cloak, revealing nothing more than a palace dress beneath, its shiny green fabric muddied about the hem. “You rode all through the night in just this? It gets
cold
away from your warm fireplaces at night, Sofy, even in summer! What were you thinking?”

“Sasha?” Sofy pleaded. “Sasha, don't be angry with me! I…I didn't know what else to do…!”

Sasha put both hands to her head, half-turning with the strengthening urge to scream, or to break something. More men were clustering about. “Princess Sofy!” she heard them saying urgently, one to the other. It spread through their ranks with concern and surprise. This was
just
what she needed…

“There…there was a big confusion after the executions…” Sofy continued, her voice shaking, “…men running around, saying…saying there w…was rebellion and that you'd escaped. E…even the gate guards weren't paying attention. Suddenly, there were people rushing everywhere…I took the horse from the stable and I just rode! I rode like you showed me, Sasha, those times before! I just…I just had to get out before…”

“You're going back!” Sasha rounded on her. Sofy stared at her in shock. “You can't stay here, Sofy! This is an army! People are going to get killed, do you understand that?”

Past her temper, Sasha half-expected Sofy to collapse into helpless tears. “I'm not marrying that pig!” Sofy screamed instead. “I'm not! I won't marry a man who kills serrin children and calls it sport! I'd rather die!”

A hushed, incredulous silence settled over those near, as those further away scrambled to see or hear better. The sisters’ stares locked, Sasha completely at a loss, Sofy tear-streaked and desperately furious, her slim shoulders heaving.

“Can't send her back now, M'Lady,” said Tyrun in a low voice from Sasha's side. “We'll have northerners in pursuit, scouts skirmishing, village recruits on the trail, no doubt all tangling and making a mess. It's amazing she got this far without challenge. You send her back alone and she's likely dead by mistake. And we can't spare her an escort.”

“Oh dear lords,” Sasha muttered. Her temper boiled, desperate for release. She was angry at everyone—at every Goeren-yai soldier in the column for plotting without telling her, for expecting so much from her, for thrusting her into such a position without so much as a “Do you mind?”. And at Koenyg for being a dangerous fool, at her father for his blind worship, at Kessligh for leaving her, at Sofy for needing her and at herself for…“Oh dear spirits, just stop!” she thought to herself, furiously. There were men watching, men whose lives now depended to no small degree upon the decisions she made. Back in Baerlyn, arguing with Kessligh, she might have been able to afford losing her temper. Here, she could not.

“I can ride,” Sofy said in a small voice, fidgeting with some uncharacteristically tangled hair. “I think I'm quite good at it. I didn't fall off even once. I won't get in anyone's way.”

“If you ride in this column, Sofy, you
are
in the way,” Sasha retorted. “Everyone's in everyone else's way, that's what riding in formation
is
.”

“She'll be fine,” said Andreyis from one side, gallantly. “She can ride with me.” Sofy gazed at him. Wiped at her tears, ducking her head shyly.

Sasha gave the young man a harsh look. “And what are you going to wear?” she asked Sofy. “You can't wear that dress…look, no wonder you nearly froze, you must have been riding with it up over your knees! I've a spare shirt and that's it, and I'll bet none of the men have anything your size…”

“M'Lady,” volunteered a Black Hammers lieutenant Sasha did not know, “I believe we can find something among the men. We've got a few smaller lads, and even a soldier knows how to tailor in an emergency. If you were to leave the princess in my care, I believe we could find her something suitable.”

Andreyis glared at the man. Sasha threw her hands up in exasperation. “Fine,” she said, realising that she had no other choice. Which was seeming very much the way of things, lately. “You do that.”

The lieutenant gallantly offered Sofy his arm. Sofy took it meekly. “But I could…” Andreyis protested, but Teriyan laid a hand on his shoulder, restraining him. The lieutenant gave the younger, plain-dressed man a cool look over Sofy's head as he led her away. There were other soldiers, mostly officers, practically queuing to be of assistance. Andreyis fumed.

Just wonderful, Sasha thought—the fate of Lenayin in the balance and the young men thought it more important to lock horns like rutting stags in the spring. She spun on her heel and made for her previous place on the bank, her guard moving behind. Teriyan leaped quickly to her side, his stride long, but his footing not quite as precise upon the broken, shifting rocks.

“You could go a bit easy on the girl,” he suggested. “She didn't mean any harm, she just…”

“Spirits save me from people who don't mean any harm,” Sasha snapped, leaping fast across a slippery boulder in hopes of losing him. A crash of boots on loose rock told her it hadn't worked.

“And do you want to know
why
she did such a stupid, desperate thing, riding all this way in the dark when she barely knows one end of a horse from another?”

“Not particularly, no,” Sasha snapped.

“Because she needs you,” Teriyan said firmly. “I'd never met the girl until now, but you read me some of the less private bits from her letters before, and Lynette tells me some more…” Memories of the Steltsyn Star, warm before the fireplace with a mug of ale, reading some delightful palace scandal from Sofy's latest letter that she knew her friends would love to hear. “You think of her as the smartest girl in Baen-Tar, and perhaps she is at that. But Sasha, she worships the ground you walk on, just as much as you ever did with Prince Krystoff. And now when she gets into the worst possible trouble, she comes running all this way to see
you.
Not Daddy the king, not brother Damon, not her palace friends and fellow girlies…you, Sasha. She needs you.”

Sasha stopped on the riverbank, hands to her head, and stared agonisedly across the water. Wind gusted at the riverside trees. Above the eastern hills, the broken edges of cloud glowed golden in the dawn light. Perhaps the rain would hold off after all.

“Why can't people just look after themselves?” she said plaintively to no one in particular. “Why do I always end up getting caught in other people's problems?”

“If you really think that,” Teriyan said sharply, “then you're even more arrogant than I thought.” Sasha rounded on him, disbelievingly. “You, who spent your early years latched onto brother Krystoff like a foal to its teat, and your later ones just as much so upon Kessligh. That man gave his life to you when most people would have given their right arm for him to even say hello, and what thanks do you give
him
for it? You're a smart, strong girl, and you've more talent for swordsmanship in your little finger than most of us have in total…but you've a hell of a lot to learn about responsibility. The spirits grant each of us responsibilities over others. When they need our help, we give it. All I see from you right now is complaints and selfishness.”

“I'd accept that dressing- down from a friend,” Sasha said coldly. “But from someone who lied to me, who was spying on me in secret, and has been setting up this whole campaign, with me to lead it, and never a word to
me
…” She took a deep breath, trying to keep from shaking. She'd nearly lost it completely, in full view of everyone. It had been that close. “From that person, I'll not hear
anything
lest I ask for it. Is that clear?”

“Ah…” Teriyan gave a contemptuous wave, turning his back as if to dismiss her in disgust. But he paused, and looked back at her. “I'm not perfect, and I'll bet I've made mistakes, with you, with Lynie, with Kessligh and everyone else. But everything I've done, Sasha, I've done with the good of other people in mind. You have a long, hard think about it, and you ask yourself if you can honestly say the same thing.”

Damon rode across the chaos of the Rathynal tent city in the cold light of dawn, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The once orderly, sprawling camp now looked as though a great wind had sprung up in the night and come howling across the slope, leaving a trail of destruction in its wake. Some tents were collapsed and belongings were strewn upon the ground. Mustering squares for horses now held only half their proper number and cartloads of fodder were stripped of feed. Soldiers wandered aimlessly, some talking in small groups, some sitting by lonely campfires and sipping tea.

Damon caught snatches of conversation as he rode past, some angry, some exasperated, some forlorn. There was not a Goeren-yai man to be seen. At Damon's side, Myklas rode with a bewildered expression. Myklas had never found the bickering of lords interesting before. A sixteen-year-old prince in Baen-Tar, Damon knew all too well, could lead a sheltered life, safe within the illusion that all Lenays shared the same values, paid homage to their superiors and would die for the same causes, if needs be. Damon had been eased from that illusion slowly, one small step into the freezing water at a time. Myklas had been thrown for a headlong plunge and his eyes now registered the chilling shock.

In a field beside the road, a group of soldiers gathered about a morning campfire. Damon recognised the flag atop a near tent—a battlehorn on a scarlet background, the Fyden Silver Horns. Damon called ahead to his Royal Guard escort and rode into the field. Morose, unshaven faces looked up as he approached.

Damon and Myklas dismounted and handed reins to the guardsmen. “Highness,” said a Fyden sergeant, with no real enthusiasm. Of the six men present, this man was the senior ranked.

“What happened?” Damon asked. It was a question he'd asked numerous soldiers this morning. It was plenty clear what had happened. It was not a simple description of events he was seeking.

The sergeant shrugged. “Damn mess, Your Highness,” he said, in a guttural western accent. “They leave, all my Goeren-yai. Many friends. Damn mess.” His Lenay was not good…it rarely was, in the west. Nearby, an officer was shouting, trying to rally scattered men.

“How many of the Silver Horns contingent remain?”

The sergeant made a face. “Half. Maybe less. Some Verenthanes go. Lieutenant Byron go. Maybe I should have go too.”

“Highness…” a man-at-arms ventured, cautiously, “we go…go chase? Chase our men?”

“They're traitors,” Damon said flatly. Koenyg had been most insistent on that point. Insistent, loud and angry.

The westerners looked most unhappy at that. “Not traitors, Highness,” said another. “Good men.”

Another man said something in a western tongue, which got an angry retort from his comrade. Voices were raised, back and forth. Evidently the issue was not universally agreed.

Damon was not surprised. He glanced up at the Royal Guardsman astride his horse—a Goeren-yai man, one of the few Royal Guard Goeren-yai who'd remained. The man's face was impassive. Despite Koenyg's attempts to dismiss a number of Goeren-yai Royal Guards, Damon had insisted as many remain as possible. Koenyg had already had a list compiled, it seemed, and had spent half the dark hours summoning, ordering and shouting, trying to sort out the loyal from the disloyal. Even when it became apparent that some Verenthanes, too, had abandoned their posts, he only dismissed Goeren-yai guardsmen.

Then had come news that some other Goeren-yai guardsmen, infuriated by the dismissals, had taken leave to ride hard after the traitors and more were joining them. Some northern cavalrymen had intercepted them, with sporadic battles erupting by torchlight across the fields and into the forest below. That tally was twenty dead from both sides, with rumours spreading fast of how the Banneryd cavalry had executed several wounded guardsmen, not helping matters at all. The desertions had only ended after a furious row between Captain Myles of the Royal Guard and Koenyg, during which (it was said) Koenyg had threatened to dismiss Captain Myles as well, to which Myles had countered that all the Royal Guard would desert if he did so.