Joel Shepherd - Tracato

The hitch, of course, was that for it all to work, the army had to win.

Sasha stretched carefully as men dismounted. A galloping horse turned her head, knights moving to protect the dismounting princess regent as the new arrival came to a halt nearby. Jaryd Nyvar jumped from his horse and strode to Sasha, grinning ear to ear. He hugged her gently, having evidently heard to do that, and Sasha hugged him hard.

“The rabble have been giving you a hard time, huh?” Jaryd said affectionately.

“You’ve no idea,” said Sasha. She pulled back to look at him. “Is that a ring I see? Two rings?” She fingered the metal in his ear.

“What do you think?”

“I think your hair looks better longer.” Jaryd’s hair had grown long enough to have curls. “You’re nearly handsome now.”

Jaryd laughed. “No tattoos though. Not even for you, Sasha.”

“I’ve got one!” Sasha said brightly. “I got it in Petrodor, want to see?”

“Of course! I hope it’s somewhere exciting.”

“Just my arm, I’ll show you later. Still trying to get my clothes off, huh Jaryd?”

Jaryd put a hand to her face. “No offence, Sasha, but you look like you could use a good fuck.”

Sasha laughed outright, the first time she’d laughed since Tracato, and hugged him again. Spirits she was glad to see him. She hadn’t quite expected to be this glad. Seeing her siblings again was wonderful, but hard, too. She knew they did not blame her for Alythia’s death, but she felt responsible anyway. And Sofy was married, and Koenyg was on the warpath, and Damon was angry, and Myklas was…well, Myklas, and not someone with whom she could discuss anything important. Perhaps Jaryd had been the same once, but he’d changed. He knew loss and pain. He knew what it was to feel alone. And he was one of the few men in Rhodia who’d dare flirt with her so outrageously. She needed that.

“Well,” she said, “right now I’m covered in scabs and bruises.”

Jaryd made a face. “Some men are more easily deterred than others.”

“You mean some men will fuck anything.”

Jaryd grinned, and gave her a kiss on the forehead that was far more brotherly than his banter would suggest.

About them, a camp of sorts was unfolding, as men at the head of the Lenay column sought the sheltered places to lay their gear. Most made do with a simple patch of ground, and set about making camp. Given that the Army of Lenayin marched without tents and slept on the open ground, that was a relatively simple affair of dumping gear and making a fire. Soon the firewood carts would come clattering, their men having spent the day’s march foraging for wood. The bedding cart would follow, with extra blankets for the footsoldiers with no horses to carry such heavy, unwieldy things.

Sasha, Sofy, Jaryd and Yasmyn walked with Great Lord Faras and the Isfayen lords through the gathering commotion of camp toward the fishing village. Here at the vanguard, tents were being erected, for royalty and lords. Already boats were crossing the river from the walls of Nithele, loaded with produce, and men who shouted to the soldiers ashore of things for sale. Sasha saw chickens held aloft, and fish, and baskets of eggs. Soldiers and merchants alike clustered toward the river.

Sofy walked further from Sasha, and talked with Yasmyn and Great Lord Faras. Jaryd noticed.

“She’s not talking to you either?” he asked wryly.

“We’ve each been in very different places,” Sasha explained, flexing one shoulder. Her taka-dans were becoming more strenuous, and her underworked muscles were protesting. Then, in Torovan, which she knew the Isfayen spoke only a little, “Did you fuck her?” Jaryd scowled at her. “Damon told me. Don’t worry, I’m not about to take your head for it.” And she smiled. “She could use a good fuck too. Better you take her virginity than that Larosan ass.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Jaryd said shortly. Sasha watched him, with great curiosity. He wasn’t joking now.

“How was it like?”

“I’m not sure,” said Jaryd. “Perhaps you should ask her.”

“I love her dearly, Jaryd, but she is a breathless young girl at times. I’m sure you’ve made more difficult conquests…”

“I told you, it wasn’t like that.” Jaryd’s voice betrayed impatience now.

“I believe you. Do you love her?”

Jaryd sighed, and ran a hand through his lengthening hair. “Would it matter?”

“It would to you. And it would to her, I’m sure.”

“That’s the trouble,” said Jaryd. “Best drop it.”

He indicated ahead, to a gathering of flags by the village outskirts. Flags of the Larosan royalty, Sasha saw.

“Do they know?” Sasha asked.

“Probably. But rumour here is even worse than Baen-Tar. Sofy’s rumoured to have slept with half the army, so I’m lost in the crowd. Yasmyn’s been spreading the best rumours, she always rumours Sofy to be secretly in love with the best Lenay swordsmen, and makes it known to the Larosans that those swordsmen will demand an honour duel if accused. And the Larosans don’t know Lenayin well enough to know which rumours are possible, and which are horse shit.”

“I’m sure the priesthood isn’t amused,” said Sasha, as they skirted preparations for a large tent to be erected.

“The Larosan priesthood is amused by nothing,” Jaryd agreed. “It’s a curious thing. Bawdy lords and even some ladies at the feasts and weddings, and some behaviour that would even make a Lenay blush. The priests don’t bother with that. They’re concerned about the serrin, and purity. You’d be in far greater danger with your bed partners, by the sound of it.”

Evidently he wanted to hear more of Errollyn, having heard the rumours. It was only fair, as she’d grilled him on his affair with Sofy. But she could not speak of Errollyn, and had to gaze toward the river to hold her composure. Jaryd saw her pain, and put a hand on her shoulder.

“He must be an impressive man,” he said quietly. “To have won the heart of Sashandra Lenayin.”

“The most impressive.”

It was Prince Balthaar Arosh himself who greeted them at the outskirts of the village. He made a great show of noble courtesy, shaking the hands of the Isfayen lords, complimenting them on their warrior reputation, and then kissing Sasha’s hand. He was not slimy like some lowlands nobility, Sasha conceded reluctantly. Tall and handsome, yes, with thick brows and a composed demeanour. Educated, with a straight bearing and an effortless grasp of comportment and manners. And he called her “sister,” and walked with her through the outskirts of the fishing village, as though he had arrived here with the intention of doing precisely that.

“Tell me,” he said in nicely accented Torovan, “how do the Isfayen regard you? I had heard that you’d had a confrontation with the Great Lord Faras before.” In the Udalyn Valley, when Faras had ridden with King Torvaal to help put an end to Sasha’s little rebellion. Balthaar had done some research.

“Great Lord Faras is loyal to his king,” said Sasha. “He viewed my actions as disloyal, and thought ill of me. But his daughter Yasmyn has been riding with my sister, and Prince Damon informed me that the Isfayen opinion of me had been improving. The Isfayen respect warriors.”

Sasha made certain to walk between the prince regent and Jaryd. Balthaar did not look at the younger man, but that might have been the simple arrogance of royalty. Sasha wondered.

The village houses were of squat stone walls and thatched roofs, wealthier than most Larosan villages, yet still unattractive to Sasha’s eye. A woman walking toward them with a laden basket and two children in tow fell to one knee in horror as she realised who approached. The prince’s knights swaggered past her, hands on sword belts, regarding her as a big dog might regard a small one grovelling at its paws. Sasha’s mood, recently brightened, darkened once more.