Joel Shepherd - Haven

“We're not barbarians.”

“Hmph,” said the girl, utterly unconvinced. “I'm sure you don't even think a woman should be performing these duties.”

“For a serrin,” Andreyis said drily, “you seem awfully certain of things you can't know. One of my best friends is a girl who could best your entire column single-handed should she come to rescue us.”

The serrin girl frowned at him, finishing her wrapping. And sat back on her heels for a moment. “You're that one.” Andreyis just looked at her. “The friend of Sashandra Lenayin.” She said something in Saalsi, and to Andreyis's amazement, looked a little flustered. “I am as'shin sath ,” she explained, a little awkwardly. “You have made me…” She waved a hand, searching for the right word, and slightly embarrassed that it eluded her.

“Wrong?” Andreyis offered.

The girl frowned. Then shrugged. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “Though it is yilen'eth. Indelicate.”

“But accurate.”

The girl rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You argue like my brother. What kind of a girl is Sashandra Lenayin?”

Andreyis frowned. It seemed an odd question, from a serrin. “Most serrin seem to know all about her. You didn't know I was her friend, though you knew her friend was in this column. And you know nothing about her.”

“And?” the girl challenged, eyebrows arched.

“I'd heard serrin were curious.”

The girl's eyes flashed. “I'd heard humans were arrogant. You seem to presume that my lack of interest in you or your friend is some kind of failing.”

Andreyis found himself smiling, just a little. “You really do think we're barbarians, don't you?”

“So?” she said, defensively. “You march halfway across Rhodia to attack Enora, you fight in the service of bloodthirsty murderers, and your culture seems to love nothing but war.”

“And how much of Lenay culture do you know?” Andreyis retorted.

“Deny to me that Lenays love war!”

Andreyis shrugged. “I can't. But we also love music and dancing, and good food and family and weddings…you shouldn't judge a people so narrowly.”

“When that narrowness threatens my people's very existence, I see no reason why not,” the girl snapped. “Your arm is fine, it should heal straight and you can take off the splints in another five days.” She got up. “ My people have a love of healing, even our enemies.”

Andreyis sighed, and leaned his head back against the hay. “Thanks,” he murmured, and closed his eyes. “If you only knew how much I'd rather we fought with you than against you.”

He opened his eyes to watch her walk away, but found instead that she was crouching once more, staring at him. She'd heard him. “Why don't you?” she asked him, faintly horrified. As though she simply did not understand.

Andreyis felt very sad. “I don't know,” he murmured. “Perhaps we're barbarians.”

The girl looked disgusted. And confused. And…she got up, and stood over him, looking very odd indeed.

“What's your name?” Andreyis thought to ask.

“Yshel,” said the girl.

“I'm Andreyis.”

Yshel stared a moment longer. Then shook her head in disbelief, and stalked off.

At midday the Lenay column paused at a lake. Sasha dismounted, removed her boots, and, barefoot, led her horse into the shallow water. As the gelding drank, she looked about at the shore. Upon the far bank, fields climbed a slope to a village on the crest. To the right and west, a stream meandered to the lake edge, framed by an old stone arch. To the left and east, virgin forest, lovely green and dappled shade.

Men and horses joined her in the shallow water, hooves churning the shallows. Damon left his horse to another man, and stood on the lakeside talking with Jaryd…some matter of politics, Sasha presumed. Today Damon was aggravated that the Great Lord of Ranash would not hold his place in the column, and instead wandered to pursue rumours of serrin in the nearby hills. Yesterday, Damon had been upset that the Great Lord of Yethulyn refused to discipline several of his men for the killing of a villager who had insulted one of them. Sasha was certain the true source of Damon's frustrations lay elsewhere, and left Jaryd to deal with him. Better him than her.

She removed her bandoleer, and then her jacket, and hung them on her saddle horn. She stooped to wash her arms and face in the cold water. The chill was lovely, and reminded her of Lenayin.

Something hit the water in front of her, and splashed her, startling her horse. Sasha turned in suspicion and saw nearby her youngest brother Myklas, closest to her of a new group of riders. He tucked his thumbs in his belt and looked nonchalantly elsewhere. But several men were grinning, which gave the game away.

Sasha pulled a rotting piece of wood from the lake bed and threw it at him. It hit before the young prince, showering him with water.

He looked aggrieved. “What was that for?”

Sasha gave him a warning look, and went back to washing. She was in no mood for play. Myklas splashed over to her. He had celebrated his seventeenth birthday just last week, muted and solemn though the celebration had been. Not yet at his full height, he would never grow so tall as Damon, nor so broad as Koenyg. But to hear the Hadryn tell it, he would soon surpass both as a warrior, if he had not already. It was Hadryn he rode with now, pale men in black cloth and armour astride big horses, the famed northern cavalry of Lenayin.

“Sister, I'm wet,” said Myklas as he approached.

“Oh, the injustice.”

“I demand recompense.”

Sasha ignored him. Though now a blooded warrior, Myklas still found the world a game. Perhaps he felt he could recapture an earlier innocence. Sasha wondered how long it would be until he discovered he could not.

Myklas sighed, sensing her mood, and put an arm about her shoulders. “How do you heal?” he asked.

“Well enough,” said Sasha. “Even the scars are fading.”

“Let me feel,” said Myklas. It was hardly the place for it, with men all about watering their horses, but Sasha had long ago decided that the moment she demanded ladylike exceptions from these men, they would put her in the rear and suggest she exchange her sword for an embroidery needle. She unlaced the front of her shirt, pulling it back to her throat so that the collar fell down her shoulders. Myklas put his hand down her back, and felt at the old scars.

A month ago, those had been terrible, great welts and scabs from cuts, canes, and burns. Now, Myklas's hand felt only faint unevenness on her skin.

“No pain?” he asked her.

“It's odd,” she admitted. “The new skin feels too sensitive, almost sore. The burn marks are the worst.” Those had been from a red-hot poker. She'd killed the man who'd done it, but not the one who'd ordered it done. There was great competition amongst her brothers and friends to be the one who severed that man's head…after perhaps several limbs, and various other appendages. “But no, no pain.”

“It would take more than a dozen torturers to leave a mark on you,” said Myklas. He withdrew his hand, and put the arm back around her. Sasha sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. He was just now getting tall enough that she could do that. He kissed her on the head, put a foot behind her own feet, and tripped her over backward.

Sasha hit the water with a freezing splash, cursing herself for an idiot, but not at all surprised. She grabbed Myklas's legs, braced her feet, and drove a shoulder into him. He came down on top of her, and then they were both splashing and flailing in the water, her nearly gaining the upper hand to shove his head down, then he taking her arms and twisting her over sideways. Sasha got a knee into him, and a fistful of belt, but he was too strong and lithe, and grabbed her into a bear hug from which she could not escape.