Joel Shepherd - Tracato

“The northern provinces all want you dead, of course,” Damon continued. “Much of the nobility of all provinces, too. I don’t think you can ride with the vanguard, too many high nobility ride there, and will take it ill.”

“That’s shit,” Myklas snorted, lounging into a chair beside the bed. “She’s our sister, she should ride with her brothers.”

“It is not our decision to make,” Damon said firmly. “We can’t start a fight with the lords now just before a war, not even for Sasha.”

“I agree,” said Sasha. “Where do you want me?”

“Valhanan would not work,” said Damon, and Sasha’s heart sank. “They march too far back in the column, I’d like you nearer the front. And Koenyg is right, it would sow division. It is well known that the Goeren-yai of Valhanan have doubts about this war, having a former leader such as yourself ride amongst them would only remind them of the things that divide them from the Lenay nobility, and all the reasons they should not fight. You must ride with nobility, to show them you are no threat, and will not agitate the Goeren-yai.”

“Well no one north, east or probably south will have me,” Sasha pointed out. “Taneryn would, but you don’t want to ignite that again. You’re not going to dump me with the bloody west?”

“I have an idea,” said Damon. “Tomorrow we shall see.”

Sasha buried her face against the mattress, as the maids continued to soak and apply their cloths. In all her haste to return to her people, she’d forgotten how terrible Lenay politicking could be. Only now did it truly occur to her just how few of her people would be as pleased to see her as she was to see them.

SIDESADDLE, SOFY DECIDED, WAS NOT MERELY LUDICROUS, but dangerous. Several times when her mare lurched unexpectedly, she thought she might topple. She would have felt so much safer on her little Dary, but the travelling court had been scandalised enough that she would wish to ride on horseback to greet her sister Sasha, and to have the princess regent riding on a scruffy little Lenay dussieh would have been too much to ask.

She sat instead upon an elegant white mare lent to her for the occasion, alongside her husband on a tall black stallion. About them rode knights in full armour, and lords in less taxing mail and formalwear. The banners of the regency swung in the midmorning sun. They numbered nearly a hundred strong, with servants and squires, heralds and scouts. The Army of Larosa, and the Army of Lenayin, marched on parallel paths, not more than a quarter-day’s ride apart, to save the roads from churning to muddy bogs beneath many thousands of boots, hooves and wagon wheels in the late-spring rains.

Balthaar seemed in good humour, laughing with his lords and knights, and admiring the sunny morning. He complimented Sofy often on how lovely she looked, and how well she rode, and missed no opportunity to reach for her hand and exchange a smile. Sofy did not know what she felt. She tried simply to ride, and enjoy the freedom away from the royal procession at the Larosan Army’s head, and to appreciate the morning as her husband did.

Soon enough, the Larosan party arrived at the head of the great Lenay column, and Sofy exchanged greetings all over again with her father and brothers, while insisting that the army should not stop simply to observe the formality. All seemed very subdued, and her father in particular, deadly grim. That was no surprise, King Torvaal Lenayin was usually grim. And it had only been a week since leaving Sherdaine, so the sight of her was no great astonishment to any. But Sofy gained the distinct impression that something was very wrong, and no one wanted to be the one to tell her. Was it Sasha, she suddenly feared?

She left most of the Larosan contingent with the Lenay vanguard, and rode with a small party of knights in single file along the roadside. The Isfayen rode forth in the column, and it took some time to reach them. Lenay warriors cheered as she passed, and she waved, smiling, and trying to be happier than she felt. It was all confusing. She wanted to see Sasha again so badly. Sasha had that way of making things clear and simple to her.

When she reached the Isfayen place in the Lenay column, her first sight was of Yasmyn, riding at her father the Great Lord Faras’s side. The two of them talked and laughed, and Yasmyn’s eyes shone with happiness. Sofy wondered what it would be like, to share a relationship like that with her own father. Sasha rode at Yasmyn’s side, evidently expecting Sofy’s arrival. Upon seeing her, Sasha rode forward, and dismounted. Sofy did likewise, and embraced her tearfully. She could not hug hard, for her brothers had told her of Sasha’s injuries. She could not hug long, either, for the column marched on, oblivious to the concerns of sisters who had not seen each other in far too long, and wanted only a moment’s pause to catch up. It felt awkward, and not at all the heartfelt reunion Sofy had dreamed of. When they parted, Sasha seemed reluctant to meet her eyes.

“Sasha, what’s wrong?” Sofy asked, wiping tears from her cheeks. Sasha’s eyes were dry. Somehow, that disappointed her.

“Did they tell you?” Sasha asked quietly. “About Alythia?”

“No.” And with growing alarm, “Sasha, what about Alythia?”

Sasha made a muttered curse, and stared off across neighbouring woods. “She’s dead, Sofy. The great Tracatan enlightenment killed her.”

Sasha and Sofy rode and talked together at the Isfayen contingent’s head for a long time. Sasha insisted that Sofy tell of her adventures first, from her ride to Baerlyn to assist in the revenge of Jaryd Nyvar, to the assembly of the army, and the subsequent ride to Larosa, and the wedding to follow. Sofy found it difficult to talk, so soon after learning Alythia’s fate, yet she tried, and was not interrupted by floods of tears too frequently.

Sasha then told her own tale, and Sofy listened with mixed horror and concern to hear of Sasha’s trials in Petrodor, and the War of the King, and her most recent horrors in Tracato. Sasha’s tone was flat, lacking its usual expression. She skipped details, and did not embellish as she usually would. Sofy had always loved to hear Sasha’s tales before, as her eyes would come alive with boisterous enthusiasm and carry her listeners along with the tale. Now, the words seemed as dry as Sasha’s eyes, and her telling did not invite any response. Sofy tried interrupting, seeking further detail that might shed more light on what she suspected Sasha of hiding, but there was no joy in the discovery. When Sasha reached Alythia’s death, she skipped very quickly to the end, and waited for Sofy’s latest tears to end.

Sasha took Sofy’s hand, and her grip at least was firm. “How’s Balthaar?” she asked.

“Well,” said Sofy, and paused to find a stronger voice. “He’s hopelessly in love, Sasha.” She managed a weak smile at her sister. Sasha just studied her, curiously. “It’s rather sweet, actually. He’s such a model of Larosan nobility. He’s very refined, very educated, quite arrogant yet not at all mean… I had not thought that such a man could fall in love with a girl like me. And a Lenay savage at that. Although I think for him that is a part of the attraction, he’s fascinated that such a savage culture could produce someone like me.”

“Are you happy?”

“Happy?” Sofy stared at her. Something about the question, so bluntly put, made her anxious. “I’m not sure what happy has to do with anything.”

Sasha seemed as though more impressed with the answer than she’d expected. She rode very upright, Sofy noted, shoulders back, with none of her usual ease. Surely her wounds hurt her. “Do you love him?” Sasha asked.