Joel Shepherd - Haven

With the Lenay king's tents still a distance ahead, they approached another large tent. Seated within a roughly fenced enclosure between trees were prisoners, guarded by Lenay men in black armour. Alfriedo slowed to look. Some prisoners were serrin, others human. Enoran, he guessed. All were tightly bound, many wounded. In the river itself, more prisoners had been tied to stakes, so that only their heads were above water. From within the adjoining tent came screams. There were no campfires near the tent. Even hardened Lenay warriors preferred to seek their rest further away.

King Koenyg's tent was near a small bridge across the river. Many Lenays stood guard around it, or sat about nearby fires to eat, drink and talk, yet never did they cease to be alert. Many in particular kept an eye on the river, for there were rumours through the camp that serrin could float downstream underwater, breathing from sheepskin bladders, and emerge within the camp to slit men's throats as they slept. Alfriedo did not think it possible, an air-filled bladder would surely float, and the campsites along the river stretched several thousand paces at least, all watchful with sleepless men. Yet for gods-fearing Verenthane men to be invaders here in the land of the serrin could be an unnerving thing, particularly now that the sun had set. Men told stories, and believed things that were not proven true.

The guards before the tent flaps showed no signs of admitting new visitors. From within, Alfriedo heard conversation, and saw shadows cast against the tent walls.

“They won't let you in,” said an accented voice to one side, in Larosan. Seated against a tree by the riverbank was a man in Torovan armour. He was young, perhaps twenty, with a mop of untidy hair recently flattened beneath a helmet. His legs, sprawled before him, were long. “King Koenyg likes to make everyone wait.”

Other Torovan nobles sat or stood nearby, some talking, others sharing a smoking pipe. Alfriedo walked to him, and the tall man climbed achingly to his feet.

“I am Alfriedo Renine, Lord of Rhodaan,” he introduced himself.

“Carlito Rochel, Duke of Pazira.”

“You are a friend to Sashandra Lenayin,” Alfriedo observed as they shook hands. Carlito frowned, as though he thought the young lord was accusing him of something. “I was a friend to Sashandra's sister Alythia,” he explained. “She told me something of Sashandra's adventures with your father, Alexanda Rochel.”

“Ah,” said Carlito, with dawning realisation. “Alfriedo Renine. The boy lord of Rhodaan, of course. Please, we shall sit, my legs are killing me.” Alfriedo smiled and joined Carlito beneath the tree. “Please, gentlemen,” the duke addressed the other Rhodaanis, “sit on the grass, share some wine. We have good Pazira wine, none of that Petrodor horse piss that is all you Rhodaanis seem to drink.”

A skin was unstoppered as the Pazira men gave hospitality.

“So,” said Carlito. “Princess Alythia Lenayin. I heard what happened to her, very sad.”

“She was like a sister.”

“Very sad. Sashandra was very sad too. I know her a little, yes, from when she was with the Army of Lenayin, and before.”

“Some may argue that she is still with the Army of Lenayin,” Alfriedo said drily.

Carlito stared at him for a long moment, then looked about, to be certain of who else might overhear. “I know Lenayin a little,” Carlito said in a lower voice than before. “Pazira shares a border with Valhanan Province. My father dealt kindly with the Lenays there, that is how he befriended Kessligh, and Sashandra.”

“My condolences on his passing,” said Alfriedo. “I heard nothing but good of him.”

Carlito inclined his head. Whatever his languid manner, he seemed a serious and thoughtful man. “I thank you. He told me it was foolish to think that Lenayin could ever be a Verenthane kingdom. He said that it did not matter what the King of Lenayin thought-or what the Archbishop of Petrodor thought-Lenayin would always be pagan at its heart. It was crazy to invite them to this war, and expect them to fight for a Verenthane cause. This split they have made should only surprise men who have not paid attention.”

“I have been reading much of Lenayin lately,” Alfriedo admitted. “I even have some books in my saddlebags. Kessligh Cronenverdt challenged me to do so, and I have accepted. What you say may be true.”

Carlito sipped from his wineskin. “Sashandra, you know, she killed some Verenthane men even when she was on our side. I saw it. Friends of the Regent himself, big, noble men, they threatened her and called her a whore. She killed them.”

“She seems to do that quite a lot.”

Carlito shrugged, in that very expressive way of Torovans. “Some say she loves blood. But I met her before, when she came to Pazira with Kessligh to see my father. She did that twice.” He smiled a little. “Very strange girl. But kind of pretty. You know?” He glanced at Alfriedo, teasing. “No, you are too young, you do not know.”

“I know,” Alfriedo retorted. “I'm not that young.”

Carlito put a hand on his shoulder, apologising. “Anyway. She had a temper, but she was not…you know, a killer. I think maybe she kills because people keep attacking her.”

“There is a great warrior in a tale told by Tullamayne, Lenayin's greatest storyteller,” Alfriedo recalled. “Tullamayne writes that he was asked once, ‘Why have you killed so many men?’ And he replied, ‘Because so many men deserve to die.’”

Carlito smiled. “So Lenay, yes? I've read Tullamayne, my father forced me to. He said I could not understand Lenayin had I not.”

“This seems rather like a Tullamayne tale today, I think.”

“Indeed. Perhaps we are all living inside one of his great heroic tales, Lenay warrior brothers all fighting each other. Only he did not envisage a warrior sister.”

“A modern twist.”

“Of course.”

The camp seemed strangely peaceful, despite the ongoing noise of forty thousand men and horses at rest. Water bubbled and splashed over nearby rocks. Alfriedo thought of the prisoners tied in the water upstream.

“So why are you here?” Carlito asked. “Certainly you are very brave, but it does not seem reasonable that a boy should be expected to ride into battle for the Regent.”

“For two centuries Rhodaani nobility has been dreaming of reclaiming its noble rights,” said Alfriedo. “To do so we must swear allegiance to Regent Balthaar Arrosh. With my mother dead, I am the heir to Family Renine, and thus Lord of Rhodaan. I must be here to claim our place in the new world to come.”

“I too,” said Carlito, with a heavy voice. “My father did not wish to join this war, yet there was no choice. Patachi Steiner of Petrodor declared himself King of Torovan in the War of the King, and now we independent dukes of the provinces must declare our allegiance or be overthrown. I am here for Pazira, and for my family. It is my responsibility, as Duke of Pazira, and so I come.”

“A serrin philosopher named Rihala once argued that a person has three great responsibilities. One responsibility is to himself, and one is to his neighbour, and the last is to the truth. It's complicated, with serrin it's always complicated, but he argued that of these three responsibilities, the last is the only one that matters, and all other responsibilities flow from that.”

Carlito frowned. “How is that?”

“Because if you do not look for truth as your main responsibility, then neither you nor your neighbour shall ever be free. Serrin have an idea of freedom, it's not like humans think of it. Freedom for serrin is truth. Lies are slavery.”

“Serrin,” Carlito sighed. “I don't understand.”

Alfriedo smiled. “As I said, it's complicated.”