Joel Shepherd - Haven

For a moment, the two lines regarded each other in the silence of the valley. Then a serrin rider moved forward. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, yet it was a Petrodor hat, not of the Bacosh fashion. Beneath the brim were emerald green eyes, narrowed with a deadly intensity.

Rhillian.

Sasha also rode forward. She knew that Rhillian felt responsible for the threat that she, Sasha, represented to Saalshen. Rhillian had befriended her, then failed to kill her when they had become enemies. She had sworn to eliminate all of Saalshen's enemies, particularly those as formidable as Sasha. She had promised herself never to be so soft again, whatever it cost her soul. One signal from Rhillian, and Sasha would be feathered with arrows. Sasha could see the temptation in Rhillian's eyes. The intensity. The conflict.

Rhillian drew her blade and gestered to the ground. Single combat? Sasha couldn't quite believe her old friend now hated her that much.

Sasha drew her own blade and dismounted. She walked forward, testing the wet, leafy ground beneath her boots. Rhillian also approached. Did she wish to die? They both knew Sasha was better. Nothing was certain in combat, but in sparring, Sasha would back herself three times out of four against Rhillian, perhaps more. Rhillian knew. Sasha could see that in her eyes as well.

They stopped. Blades poised, in a hush as though every living thing in the valley now paused, and considered the many fates that had collided to make this moment finally come. Sasha took a deep breath. The scene was beautiful. The misty valley, her brave Isfayen at her back. Rhillian herself, still the most lovely face she had ever seen. The spirits were watching. This would be a good place to die.

She lowered the blade to her side, and closed her eyes.

Time passed. Too much time. She opened her eyes once more, and found Rhillian standing directly before her, and no blade between them. Her impossible green eyes were shimmering. She put a hand to Sasha's cheek.

They embraced, desperately hard, and sobbed in each other's arms. Sasha lost control of her legs, and they sank to their knees, locked together with a grip like steel. The spirits of the valley watched, and knew that all the will of kings and priests and gods could not part them. Love carved its own path, and made its own fate. About them, Isfayen and serrin cheered alike, as though the war were already won.

Isfayen and talmaad retreated to a forested hilltop not far from the valley, with a view back toward the stream. There, amidst cautious scenes between wary humans and serrin, Sasha sat on a fallen log with Rhillian alongside, and Markan standing by them both.

“What now?” Markan asked shortly.

Rhillian and Sasha looked at each other, and suppressed grins. Annoyingly, Sasha had to wipe at her eyes once more. She felt as though she could breathe properly for the first time in what seemed like an age. As though some crushing weight had lifted. War and suffering beyond measure lay ahead, but for the first time in a long while, life itself felt good.

“I'm sorry about your hair,” Sasha said. Rhillian wore her hat at her back, held by a lace at her collar. Rhillian turned her head, to show Sasha the diagonal cut at the back.

“Look how precise it is,” said Rhillian. “You swing a blade like no one else I know.” Sasha reached a hand to examine the cut with her fingers.

“I'm glad you ducked,” she said. They were both struggling not to cry again. Markan cleared his throat.

“I have forsaken much traditional honour to follow the path of the Synnich spirit,” he said sharply. “I will not forsake more honour to follow a weeping little girl.”

Sasha wiped her eyes again, and composed herself. “Rhillian, we have a task. The cause for which the Army of Lenayin has been marching has proven itself honourless. My father thought to unite the regions of Lenayin within the forge of war, as a metalsmith blends different kinds of steel in hot fire. But this is not a forge, this is a poison well, from which we all have been forced to drink. I will drink no more. I know many Lenays feel the same.”

“How many?” asked Rhillian. Her eyes were wide with possibility. With amazement.

“Half,” said Sasha. “At least. More will follow, with leadership. I will offer mine. I cannot promise others, but I can persuade.” She looked at Markan. Markan stood tall and grim, arms folded, and said nothing.

“The Lenay lords will not follow you,” said Rhillian.

Sasha nodded. “It matters no more than it did in the Northern Rebellion-the lords do not command the respect of any but other nobility, and they are few. Besides which, I have Great Lord Ackryd of Taneryn. I will not speak for Great Lord Markan, but he is here, as you see, and his blade is sheathed.”

She glanced up at Markan. Markan snorted and stared away at the view.

“You promise a reunion with Kessligh, Lenayin's greatest hero,” Rhillian murmured. “Valhanan will follow you and him.”

“Tyree,” Sasha added confidently. “Much of Rayen, and Neysh. I cannot speak for Yethulyn and Fyden, but if we had the Isfayen…” She looked again at Markan.

“The eastern tribes do not love the Isfayen,” Markan growled. “We have shed too much of their blood. They will do the opposite to spite us.”

“They respect you, because you have shed so much of their blood,” Sasha countered. “Of course, much of the nobility will not follow their common folk. And the Hadryn, Banneryd, and Ranash will fight us all to the last man.”

“You would split your nation for us?” Rhillian asked.

Sasha shook her head. “No. My nation is already split. I do not do this for Saalshen, Rhillian, though that is a pleasant consequence. I do this for Lenayin. My father, and now Koenyg, wish Lenayin to be a noble Verenthane kingdom. They have seen the grand model of lowland civilisation, and they have embraced it for their own, on the behalf of all Lenays.

“I have been to Tracato, and I have seen a different vision of lowland civilisation. It is a flawed vision, but it has promise. I would rather that model for Lenayin than the one offered by the Regent Arrosh any day. Should we win, that shall be our model. And there shall be little room for the Hadryn and their friends in that. We fight them now, we fight them later…” Sasha shrugged. “Little difference.”

“Tracato left you shattered,” said Rhillian.

“People there failed to comprehend what they had built. They failed Tracato. With better leadership, it can still work. It was my mistake to abandon it all in my grief. By abandoning it all, I solve no problem, I only become one.”

Rhillian smiled. She looked up at Markan.

“It is not for any of us to be making Lenayin into anything,” Markan said grimly. “The Lenay people are free. The Isfayen are free. We practise our old ways, and we do not let any foreigner tell us how to be.”

“Then King Soros was wrong to bring Verenthaneism to Lenayin?” Sasha asked.

“That's different. He was a liberator.”

“As shall we be, when we save Saalshen,” said Sasha.

“These are foreign lands!” Markan snapped. “King Soros liberated Lenayin, not some faraway outpost.”

“So grand battles only matter if they are fought in Lenayin?” Sasha asked him, temper rising. “Then what are you doing here?” Markan glared. “The Isfayen came here for glory and conquest, as the Isfayen have always found glory and conquest in wars on foreign soil…hells, your ancestors laid waste to much of Telesia and Raani…by your logic, why bother, if only the affairs of Lenayin concern you?”

“The Isfayen marched to war because King Torvaal asked us to,” Markan replied. “He was the King of Lenayin, in case you forget. Now, that king is Koenyg. We swore an oath to King Soros, that we are Lenay, and shall abide by the word of the King of Lenayin….”