Sleep did not come easy. For a long time, Sasha lay beneath the heavy covers and gazed at the ceiling. The room glowed with the orange embers from the fire. From the second bed, furthest from the door, she could hear little sound from Damon's bed.
She would have preferred her own, separate room, as was the usual arrangement when she had cause to stay overnight at the Star. But Damon having acquired the lordly quarters, form dictated that one royal should not sleep in lesser accommodation than the other. Such an occurrence might spread rumours of a division.
Sasha hated it all. Hated the gossip and sideways looks, hated the out-of-towners who stared and whispered, hated the northerners who sneered and made smirking comments amongst themselves. Had always hated it, in all her living memory. And her memory, Kessligh had frequently noted with something less than pleasure, was vast. She recalled the echoing stone halls of Baen-Tar Palace all too well, with their expensive tapestries and paintings. Recalled well the texture of the grass in the little courtyards between buildings where she had sat for lessons on a sunny day, and found far greater interest in the beetles and flower gardens than in classical texts or Torovan history…to say nothing of scripture, or embroidery.
Recalled the look her instructors, servants and various assorted minders had given her, the “Sashandra-always-in-trouble” look, that expected bad behaviour and was frequently presented with such. She'd never understood those rules. Should a deep-cushion mattress not be used for jumping? And what on earth was wrong with throwing scraps of food to the pigeons that sat upon her bedroom window ledge? And running in hallways, what possible harm could it cause?
“Unladylike,” had been the routine answer. And undignified, for a princess of Lenayin. “Then I don't want to be a princess of Lenayin!” had been her typically untactful, six-year-old reply. They'd locked her in her room and given her a composition assignment to fill the time. She recalled even now the blank page of paper sheaf, and the little, sharp-tipped quill that looked like it had once been a waterbird feather.
Was that natural? To recall the experiences of a six-year-old with such detailed clarity? Kessligh had said, only half-seriously, that it stopped her from growing up, so tightly did she clutch to the memories of her past. Sasha had answered that on the contrary, it spurred her to leave that time even further behind. But now, lying in the warm, orange glow of the Star's lordly quarters, she wondered.
She recalled throwing the sheaf of papers out the window, scattering pigeons from the ledge, and papers all over the gardens below. Not being able to do what one chose had seemed a great injustice. Her minders had concluded that she was spoiled, and had determined to make life more difficult, removing more privileges, and increasing the severity of punishments. That had only made her angry. The next time she'd thrown something out of the window, it had been heavy, and she hadn't opened the window first.
Damon, of course, had since challenged her recollections of those times. It had not been all her minders’ fault, he'd proclaimed, upon her first visit back to Baen-Tar in four years, at the ripe old age of twelve. He'd been fifteen, somewhat gangling and with two left feet ‒ not an uncommon condition for boys, Kessligh had assured her, and one reason why girls were easier to train. She'd been born wild, Damon had insisted. Wild like a bobcat, breaking things and biting people from the moment she'd learned how to walk. They'd only been trying to stop her from killing someone—most likely herself. And all of it had been no one's fault but her own.
Twelve-year-old Sasha had punched him in the nose.
Whatever the cause of the madness, Krystoff had been the cure. Krystoff, the heir to the throne of Lenayin, with his flowing black hair, his easy laugh, and his rakish, good-humoured charm. Eleven years her senior, the second eldest after Marya, who was now safely married to the ruling family of Petrodor. Sasha suffered a flash of very early memory…hiding behind a hay bale in a barn, watching Kessligh and Krystoff sparring with furious intensity.
Gods she must have been young. She tried to recall the dress—her memory of dresses was particularly excellent, much the same way as a longtime prisoner must surely recall various types of shackles and chains. The frilly, tight-stitched petticoats? Yes, it must have been, she remembered yanking at them beneath her pleated, little girl's dress, trying to stop them from tugging as she crouched. She'd been five, then, that night in the barn…and it had been night, hadn't it? Yes, she recalled the flickering lamplight and the musty smell of burning oil behind the familiar odour of hay.
But there hadn't been any fire damage to the northern wall in that memory. She'd nearly burned it all down at the beginning of her sixth year, when she'd been caught sneaking and forcibly removed. She'd grabbed and thrown a bale hook in her fury as they'd carried her away, striking a nearby lamp and sending hay bales up in roaring flames. Serrin oil, she'd later learned—long-lasting, but very flammable.
Kessligh had seen that throw, however, and been impressed. That had been about the time Krystoff had begun to take pity on her, taking an interest in one of his sisters at an age when the others, save for Marya, might as well have been invisible. She recalled him entering her room the day following the fire, an athletic and well-built seventeen, and surely the strongest, most handsome man in all Baen-Tar to her worshipful eyes. She'd been crying. He'd asked her why. And she'd explained that she was to be kept under lock and key for a week. No sunlight, save what fell naturally through her bedroom window. No natural things, save the pigeons that squabbled and made silly sounds on her window ledge. No grassy courtyards. No running, and definitely no chance to sneak to the creaky old barn in the old castle and watch the Lenayin Commander of Armies attempt to whip her eldest brother into a respectable heir and Nasi-Keth uma.
Krystoff had melted. And suddenly, in the following days, she was free. He'd promised her that if she just behaved herself, she could come and watch him train that night. She'd been courteous and attentive all through that day, and had performed all her required tasks without so much as fidgeting. Her minders had been incredulous. And Krystoff, true to his word, had found her a nice, high hay bale to sit on and watch proceedings in the barn that evening after dinner…for Krystoff trained twice a day, she'd been amazed to learn, and did many other exercises in between. He was going to be not only heir of Lenayin, but Nasi-Keth, like Kessligh. She had not, of course, grasped anything of the broader significance of this historic fact, nor the disquiet it had surely caused amongst devout Verenthanes everywhere, despite assurances that in Petrodor, most Nasi-Keth were also Verenthanes, and found no conflict between the two. All Sasha had known was that it seemed awfully exciting.
Kessligh, with curious humour, had even shown her some basic footwork when big brother Krystoff had needed a rest. She'd gotten it first go, slippered feet dancing on the dust and loose straw. Krystoff had encouraged her with typically infectious enthusiasm. They'd found her a broomstick, broken the end off and she'd used it for a practice stanch. She'd managed the basic taka-dan first time also—some of which had come from spying, and some from simple inspiration. She'd even gotten the tricky wrist-angle, and how it shifted with different footing. Krystoff had been excited enough to pick her up and spin her about, where another man might have felt slighted, upstaged by his little sister with a broomstick. Very few pupils ever simply “got” the svaalverd first time, not even serrin. Kessligh had just watched, his expression unreadable.
From then on, within the privacy of the barn at evenings, there'd been instruction for Sasha also. Lessons and exercises, too, for her to perform in her room in early mornings, before the servants arrived to fill her morning bath, and dress her in their latest torture contraption, and brush her long, flowing hair. She'd kept that half-a-broomstick beneath her mattress, and when it was found and confiscated, she'd used the fire poker in her room instead. Those exercises had been her wonderful secret—something her minders could never take away—and she'd practised every time she'd found a private moment. Her minders did not approve of Krystoff's increasingly active role in her life, despite her improved behaviour. With improved behaviour had come high spirits, and a happy, rambunctious little Sashandra Lenayin had been every bit the challenge that a sullen, moody one had presented.
They'd been kindred spirits, she and Krystoff. She recalled helping him to raid the kitchens when soldiers just arrived from impromptu exercises were hungry and unhappy at being told to wait until mealtime. Recalled Krystoff flustering the chief cook, and sweet-talking the giggling, blushing kitchen maids, while Sasha had stood on a chair, and loaded loaves of bread and bowls of soup onto trays for the queuing soldiers, who'd grinned at her and ruffled her hair.
Another time, he'd somehow talked the proprietor of the training hall into admitting her—Krystoff had been said to own the knack of talking fish out of water, or chickens into flight. (Or virtuous Verenthane maidens into his bedchambers, many had also said, when they thought she couldn't hear.) There she'd watched athletic Lenay warriors drenched in sweat, pounding each other's defences with utmost confidence and swagger…until they'd come up against Krystoff's svaalverd, and found it like trying to swat a fly from the air with a wheelwright's hammer.
Yet another time, rather naively, he'd introduced her to horses, and his little sister had fallen in love for a second time. Little Sashandra would abandon classes to go wandering around the stables, watching the stable boys and pestering the trainers for desperately coveted knowledge. And when the Royal Guards put on a formation display for a visiting foreign lord…well, no locks nor bars nor solid stone walls could hold her.
Those had been the best days, when her newfound confidence had blossomed, and with it, her first true sense of self. She'd even made peace with her other brothers and sisters…or no, she reflected now as she gazed at the ceiling—maybe not peace. More like a truce. An uneasy and often hostile one, with occasional breaches caused by either party, but usually resolved in short order.
Given nine headstrong siblings, that had been no mean achievement. Other than Krystoff, Marya—the eldest—had been her best friend, and her marriage and departure for Petrodor had been a sad day indeed. Koenyg, then second-in-line for the throne behind Krystoff, had long been jealous of his elder brother's carefree popularity, and had spent much of his life attempting to become everything that Krystoff was not—disciplined, calm and sober. Her sister Petryna, now married to the heir of Lenayin's Yethulyn province, had been studious and sensible, and no lover of outrageous antics. Wylfred had preferred his own company and spent much of his free time in temple with his books. And then there was Damon, only a boy himself in all her Baen-Tar memories, and oh-so self-conscious and awkward in the presence of his overbearing, talented elder brothers. And Alythia, the glamorous one, who loved everything princessly that Sasha hated, and loved even more to demonstrate that fact to the world.
And then, of course, there were her two younger siblings, Sofy and Myklas…and her eyes widened. She had not asked anything about Sofy! Gods and spirits, how could she be so forgetful? She rolled her head upon the pillow and cast a glance across at Damon, apparently asleep beneath the covers. But there might be no time tomorrow, she reasoned.
“Damon,” she called across the beds. “Damon. Are you awake?”
“If I said no, would you leave me alone?” came Damon's reply, muffled in the pillows. Sasha wasn't fooled—he couldn't sleep either. No wonder, given how heavily the weight of command usually sat upon his shoulders.
“How is Sofy?” Sasha asked him. “In all this fuss about Krayliss, I forgot to ask.”
“Like Sofy,” Damon retorted.
“Is she enjoying her studies?” Sasha pressed determinedly. Damon wasn't going to get off that easily. “She seemed happy in her last letter, but I sometimes wonder if she tells me everything.”
“Sofy's always happy,” Damon muttered. As if there were something vaguely offensive about that. “She asks about you a lot.”
“Does she?”
“Oh yes. Every time a noble traveller arrives in court, having passed within scent of Valhanan, she never fails to corner him and ask for news of you.”
Sasha smiled. “But she's well? Her last letter spoke of Alythia's wedding. She seemed very excited.”
“Not nearly as excited as Alythia,” said Damon. And rolled onto his back, appearing to abandon hope of sleep, at least for the moment. “But yes, Sofy is helping with the preparations. Alythia scolds her, and tries to be upset at her interference…she was unhappy with Sofy's suggestions for the ordering of vows and ceremonies, thinking that she knows best in everything. But of course, on reflection, she agreed that Sofy's ideas were best. As always.”
For all Sasha's differences with Damon, they shared a common affection for their younger sister Sofy. It was mostly thanks to Sofy's mediation that Damon and Sasha had arrived at their present truce. Sasha was yet to be convinced of Sofy's faith in Damon, but she had conceded that her previous, less flattering impressions of him had been wide of the mark. But then, that was Sofy, always intervening, always drawing compromise from the most hardened of opinions.
“And the holy fathers are pleased with the wedding preparations?” Sasha asked, having heard a little of that controversy.
“It's ridiculous,” Damon sighed. “Father Wynal now protests that the arrangements are not in full accordance with the scripture, but Alythia protests that she wants a traditional Lenay wedding like Marya and Petryna had…”
“Marya and Petryna's weddings were anything but traditional,” Sasha snorted.
“Well, they had the fire and the dancing with hand painting…”
“That's hanei, Damon,” Sasha corrected. “And the fire is tempyr, the purifier, the door between states of being. It symbolises a couple's transition into married life, the athelyn, the destruction of the old, making way for the new. It's the foundation of the Goeren-yai view of the universe.”
“Sounds serrin,” Damon remarked, with less interest than Sasha might have hoped. The ignorance of so many Verenthanes toward the old ways disgusted her. They had been their ways too, a hundred years before.
“Serrin and Goeren-yai belief has much in common,” Sasha agreed, keeping her temper in check. Outbursts and lectures would serve no good purpose, she told herself firmly. “It's one reason the Goeren-yai and serrin have had such good relations for so long.”
“Anyhow,” Damon said dismissively. “Alythia thinks it's pretty, and the hand painting—the hanei—is. And so much more glamorous than a traditional Verenthane wedding.”
“I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks so,” Sasha said sourly. “Verenthanes have to be the most morbid bunch, Damon. I hear in some parts of the Bacosh and the rest of the lowlands, women aren't even allowed to dance. Can you imagine?”
“I can't imagine,” Damon admitted, frowning at the ceiling. “But then, being a Verenthane means different things from one land to another. Lenayin will always be Lenayin. That is one thing Goeren-yai and Verenthane shall always have in common in this land. I think I shall always have more in common with a Lenay Goeren-yai than with a lowlands Verenthane.”
“We'll see if you still believe in Lenay brotherhood should you have the misfortune to encounter Family Telgar on this ride,” Sasha said darkly.
“The men of the north are brave,” Damon said shortly. “I won't prejudge them.”
“It's not their bravery I question,” said Sasha. “It's their humanity.”
Damon made an annoyed face, looking across the space between their beds. “Seriously, Sasha, need you always pick a fight? You of all people who can afford it least. I'm well aware what you think of the Verenthane north, you don't need to hurl it at me at every opportunity. I can form my own opinions.”
Sasha bit her tongue with difficulty. “And how is Myklas?” she asked, determined to prove to herself that she could simply move on and not spill blood upon the floor. Kessligh would be proud.
“Well,” said Damon, with a note to his voice that suggested he too was surprised at the ease of his victory. “He'll become a fine swordsman. He's better than I was, at his age. Better than Koenyg, maybe. It's certainly not from hard work. It must be talent.”
“Some things can't be taught,” said Sasha, putting a hand behind her head upon the pillow. The air was cold upon her arm, whatever her undershirt and the fading warmth of the fire's embers. But beneath the heavy weight of skins and blankets, the warmth was delicious.
Damon gave her a long, curious glance, the fireplace illuminating one half of his face upon the pillows. “I heard that you fought,” he said. “Last summer, when the Cherrovan pressed Hadryn hard. I heard tell of some stories. Deeds of yours.”
“All lies.”
“The stories were greatly in your favour,” Damon added.
“Then they were all true,” Sasha corrected, with a faint smile. The incursion had been, for the most part, yet another ridiculous waste of Cherrovan life. A new chieftain had required a blooding, the story went. And a blooding he had received, most of it his own. Surely the Cherrovan had not been so stupid during the centuries when they had ruled Lenayin and all the mountain kingdoms as their own.
“I had doubted your abilities, once,” said Damon. “Even with Kessligh as your uman…I'd thought he'd only chosen you for other purposes. But the men bearing these stories are honest. It seems I was mistaken. And I apologise.”
Sasha gazed across at him with great surprise. And smiled. Sofy had always told her to try being nice to Damon, rather than arguing with him all the time. Good things will come of it, she'd insisted. And once again, it seemed, her little sister was right. “Apology accepted,” she said graciously. “You're not the only man to make such a judgment. There are thousands who believe such, up in the north.”
Damon snorted. Then, “Has Kessligh told you of your standard? One story came from a man who was himself a master swordsman. He said he'd never seen anything like it.”
Sasha sighed. “Praise from Kessligh is rare. He hates complacency.”
“Can you best him sparring?”
“Sometimes. Maybe one round in three. More on good days, less on others.” But Damon looked very impressed. Besting Kessligh at all was said to be a worthy achievement. Most men would have been happy with one round in ten. But then, for those who did not fight with the svaalverd, it was no fair contest.
“I still don't see how it's possible,” Damon said, with a faint shake of his head. “For a woman. I have bested three Cherrovan warriors in combat. Combat is exhausting, for the fittest, strongest men.”
Never “frightening,” Sasha reflected. No Lenay man would ever admit so. “Yes, but you waste strength when you fight,” she told him. “Hathaal, serrin call it. There's no direct translation in Lenay…energy, perhaps. Or maybe a life force, though serrin have too many names for that to count. A symmetry. A power derived from form, not bulk. The straight, sturdy tree is more hathaal than the crooked one, even if they are both as tall. You are stronger than me. But using svaalverd, I am more hathaal. And you cannot touch me.”
Damon snorted. “So confident are you. We've never sparred.”
“Tomorrow, perhaps?” Sasha said mildly.
“We ride first thing in the morning.”
“Convenient.”
“You know much of serrin lore,” Damon remarked, ignoring her barbs.
“Of course. I am Nasi-Keth.”
“Do you love the serrin?”
Sasha frowned. Footsteps creaked in the corridor outside, the last of the revellers coming upstairs to their beds. The dying fire managed one last, feeble pop. “I've yet to meet a bad or unpleasant one,” she said after a moment.
“That doesn't answer my question.”
And it was not, Sasha knew, such an innocent question. There was war afoot between the Bacosh and neighbouring Saalshen. Visiting merchants fuelled a wildfire of rumour, serrin travellers had been rare of late, and Kessligh's mood grim. She didn't like to think on it. There had been bad news from the Bacosh before—for many, many centuries, in fact, one endless succession of terrible internal wars over power, prestige and matters of faith. Those had come and gone. Surely these latest rumblings would follow.
“The serrin are a good and decent people,” she answered. “Much of their lore, skills and trades has improved human lives beyond measure, from irrigation to building to medicines and midwifery…sometimes I wonder how we ever managed without them. Anyone who would make war on them will not gain my sympathy.”
“They live on lands that are not theirs,” Damon responded flatly. “Many include Verenthane holy sites. Sites of the birth of Verenthaneism itself. The Bacosh are the eldest and most powerful of Verenthane peoples, they'll not let the matter rest.” Sasha rolled beneath her covers to fix her brother with an alarmed gaze.
“What have you heard?” she asked accusingly. Damon shrugged, his mood sombre.
“There is much anger. Talk of the Verenthane brotherhood uniting to take back the holy lands.”
In all recent history, the Bacosh had only been united once. The man who accomplished it, Leyvaan of Rhodaan, had named himself king, and repaid the serrin who'd assisted his rise with invasion and slaughter. The serrin response had been devastating, crushing Leyvaan and his armies, and taking the three nearest Bacosh provinces for themselves. That had been two centuries ago, and today, the so-called “Saalshen Bacosh” remained in serrin hands. Many in the priesthood called those lands holy, and wanted them back, out of the clutches of godless, pagan serrin.
“Such talk has existed since Leyvaan the Fool created the whole mess in the first place,” Sasha retorted. “The Saalshen Bacosh is a happy place. The only unhappy people are those outsiders who resent that fact. Besides, there is no Verenthane brotherhood. It's a myth.”
“Even so,” Damon said tiredly. “People talk, is all. Perhaps it will fade, I hope so. We have enough troubles in Lenayin without lowlands concerns thrust upon us also.”
“Hear hear,” Sasha murmured. But Kessligh's words remained with her: “War is in the air. Us old warhorses can smell it.”
“You're not going to ask after Father's well-being also?” Damon queried into that silence.
“No,” said Sasha. And tucked her warm, heavy blankets more firmly down about her neck. “Father has advisors enough to see to that already.”