Joel Shepherd - Tracato

As she passed the Neysh bannermen, Sofy knew she was getting close. Now came the Ranash, and she did not raise nearly the number of cheers from them as she had from the southerners. Ranash was northern, and entirely Verenthane. They recalled the Udalyn Rebellion, and they recalled the youngest princess of Lenayin’s part in it. Few appeared to blame her openly to any great degree, reserving that displeasure for her sister, Sasha. Most believed Sofy to have been in Sasha’s thrall…which was perhaps true, Sofy admitted to herself now, but not in the way they thought.

The Ranash infantry were more orderly too, and far better equipped, with heavier, black uniform armour, shields, helms and even spears. There were no earrings here, no tattoos, no decorations of any kind save a greater number of banners, many denoting family symbols that middle and southern Lenayin disdained, and many eight-pointed Verenthane stars on poles or flags.

The Ranash cavalry, when Sofy reached them, gave her no salute at all. Noblemen watched her coldly beneath heavy steel helms, and heavily armoured regulars chose not to even notice her passage. There were not so many of the Ranash as the Neysh, as all the north bordered onto hostile Cherrovan, and their forces were in much demand at home. With this in mind, the north had conducted early winter forays into Cherrovan before the heavier snows set in, and had inflicted great losses. Sofy had heard tales of entire Cherrovan villages destroyed, and warbands trapped in valleys and slaughtered without mercy. Most officers she’d spoken to seemed to think the thrust would weaken the Cherrovan sufficiently to keep Lenayin secure in the column’s absence. Sofy wondered how they could be so sure that it wouldn’t have just inflamed Cherrovan into a more serious attack in the months ahead.

She cleared the crest of another hill, and saw on the downslope the Ranash bannermen, leading the Ranash nobility. Ahead of them stretched a long column of carts and a few carriages, perhaps forty in all. Sofy galloped past, and could now see the vanguard, a great cluster of red and gold Royal Guardsmen mixed with nobility from each province, each with their own captains and entourage. Further still, several formations of regulars on horseback fanned across the hillsides, perhaps five hundred in all, spread left and right in a great crescent wall across the grass. Ahead of them, a mounted scout made a small figure against a distant hillcrest, and there would be perhaps a hundred more riding yet further before and out to the flanks, some staying close, others now several days’ journey away.

She’d barely begun to pass the central vanguard when a small horse broke from the side of a carriage and cantered to her side. Astride the dussieh was a slim girl in a light red dress over riding pants and boots. Her jet black hair was tied with multicoloured ribbons, and she rode with rare confidence for a Lenay woman.

“Princess!” she exclaimed, irritated as she drew alongside. “Why did you leave me for so long?”

Sofy smiled wickedly. “Did Lord Rydar corner you in the carriage again?”

“It’s not funny!” Yasmyn retorted. “I think he does not speak Lenay so well. I tell him ‘no,’ but he does not understand.”

“Oh, he understands well enough,” said Sofy, highly amused. “He just doesn’t listen.”

“He is an ugly man,” Yasmyn insisted, scowling. “Maybe he will listen if I cut off his cock.”

Sofy suppressed a laugh. Yasmyn’s threats were nothing to laugh at. She was from far western Isfayen, the second daughter of Faras Izlar, Great Lord of Isfayen. Like most of the Isfayen, Yasmyn had light brown skin, black hair and a pronounced slant to the eyes. Alone of all the women of Lenayin, Isfayen women usually went armed, and while they were rarely warriors in wars, they were as little known for gentleness as their men. Yasmyn’s blade was a wicked-looking curved thing that the Isfayen called a darak , and she wore it shoved through the belt above her right hip. Sofy had seen her practising with it, and knew the darak to be frighteningly sharp. Perhaps she should talk to the overeager and rather silly Lord Rydar, before he suffered some unfortunate injury.

Yasmyn had been part Damon’s idea, and part Koenyg’s. All Lenay princesses in a wedding procession required handmaidens, to attend to their needs and to protect their virtue…particularly as this wedding procession doubled as a great army, filled with young warriors eager to demonstrate their virility. The Larosans in particular, Koenyg and Archbishop Dalryn had reasoned, would expect numerous handmaidens on such a journey, for propriety’s sake. Sofy had eight, piled into various carts and carriages.

Damon, however, held a dim view of the useful attributes of most of Baen-Tar’s assorted maidens, noble daughters and ladies-in-waiting. He’d wanted for his little sister a companion who might not only protect her, but actually teach her something. As it happened, Great Lord Faras had seen the war as a grand opportunity to forge closer links between his province and the Lenay royalty. Damon had suggested his daughter might become Sofy’s primary handmaiden on this journey, and Faras had been pleased to appoint Yasmyn to the role. Koenyg was still unhappy about it. The women of Isfayen would hardly be seen, by lowland eyes, as models of propriety and Verenthane virtue.

Sofy didn’t care. She was just happy to have some female company that wasn’t scared of contradicting her.

“Prince Koenyg is mad at you too,” Yasmyn added, trotting at Sofy’s side as they made gradual progress up the vanguard’s flank.

“Prince Koenyg is always mad at me,” Sofy replied. “What did I do this time?”

“He said you were gone too long. You know he does not like it when you ride so far.”

“I wasn’t gone very long!” Sofy scoffed. “I was just a few hills away. I found another old fortress and went exploring. Look, I found a coin.” She pulled out the coin from her belt and gave it to Yasmyn. “I’d like to get it cleaned-maybe I can discover whose it was.”

“If you want.” Yasmyn gave a shrug and tucked the coin into her own belt purse. “I say it was Valdryd the Reaver. He lived around the same time as these fortresses, and he laid waste to all these southern lands. The fortresses must have been raised by the inhabitants to try to stop him.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt they were raised to stop invading Lenays,” Sofy said sadly. “But raised by who?”

“It does not matter,” said Yasmyn. “Valdryd was strong. These men of the forts, they are all dead now. All fell before Valdryd.” She seemed pleased with this. Sofy expected nothing else of the Isfayen. She sighed, and thought how nice it would be if her nation were responsible for making some other contribution to its neighbours other than shortening the lifespan of their fighting men.

A great, roan stallion wheeled from amidst the Royal Guardsmen ahead, its rider spurring to Sofy’s side. Yasmyn wisely made way as Prince Koenyg, heir of Lenayin, brought his warhorse to his sister’s side. Sofy controlled Dary’s head with difficulty, as the horse towered over the little dussieh, snorting and dancing.

“That’s your last ride,” said Koenyg, glaring down at her. “I warned you not to stray so far.”

“I can’t hear you, brother,” Sofy said mildly. “You’re too high above me, please lean down closer else the wind carries your words away.”

“Don’t play games with me,” Koenyg said. “I’ll have enough trouble explaining this to your husband and his family when we arrive in Sherdaine. Fancy a lowlands Verenthane bride gallivanting around on horseback. You risk the future of all Lenayin with your stubbornness, and I’ll not have it.”