Joel Shepherd - Haven

“Highness,” he said, with a nod to her in the saddle. “I bring word from your husband, the Regent. He is aware of your concern, and wishes that you ride to see this town in person.”

Sofy blinked at him in surprise. A glance at the ladies of her party showed them similarly surprised, and some scowling.

“But of course, Sir Teale!” Sofy exclaimed. “Let us go at once! Lord Elot, would you join us? I would appreciate your insight.”

“An honour, Princess,” said Elot.

The ride to the town was a short canter across ploughed fields and men-at-arms stood ready at open gates. Even as Sofy marvelled at the beauty of the countryside, she spotted gleams of armour from amidst the trees, and the shuffling movement of horses. Her path was guarded, with some preparation. What was her husband's game?

By a little stream that meandered between fields and forest nestled a small village of stone walls and red tile. There was a barn afire in a nearby field, the source of the smoke. Cavalrymen milled in the fields, and watched as the princess approached.

“The rebels put the barn to fire rather than allow us the fodder within,” Sir Teale explained. “The town itself is utterly deserted. The rebels spread lies of our intentions, and many flee in fear. Many shall die of exhaustion upon the road who would have lived, had they stayed and not believed the lies.”

Sofy reined to a halt near the town walls and dismounted before Sir Teale or the waiting men-at-arms could assist. She walked quickly past sties and pens to a narrow alley through the village centre. All was quite clean, she noted. Small villages in Lenayin were always dirty, not that Lenay folk were unclean, but more that the Lenay hills were rugged, with winds and rain that washed mud and dirt onto all paths after a time.

She peered into an open doorway and found a neat little space within, with simple furnishings, a floor rug, and a stone oven. All seemed in order save for empty spaces on the wall hooks where pots and pans would typically hang. Those were a common farmer's more valuable possessions, those and livestock. Probably they'd have taken them on the road, piled onto some cart or mule.

Sofy hurried further along the lane, looking into other cottages, and finding things much the same. Soldiers followed her, and all these cottages had been searched in advance, she was certain. The absence of blood and fire relieved her, and yet, the scene had the feel of a show.

She arrived in a central courtyard, where a small, pretty temple was fronted by a well, and green creepers smothered the walls. Sofy admired the well, which had a small statue atop a pagoda roof, erected to keep leaves and bird droppings from falling in. The statue was of a naked lady, her long hair in one hand, a water jug in the other. It looked like Cliamene, Verenthane goddess of fertility…only this lady was far more sensuously carved than Sofy had seen, with bare breasts and one suggestive hip. And her face and eyes seemed…could she be serrin?

Lord Elot, she realised, had entered the temple. Sofy scampered to follow him, holding her skirts to clear the rough paving steps to the door.

The space within was larger than it seemed from the outside, perhaps large enough for sixty or seventy people at a very tight squeeze. Small, high windows let in the light, and there was even a circle of coloured glass in the wall above the altar. Lord Elot stood in the middle of the aisle, hands on hips, and gazed up at that window. It showed the Verenthane gods and angels, in remarkable detail.

“What craftsmanship,” Sofy said admiringly, coming to Lord Elot's side in the gentle hush of the temple. “For such a little village.”

“Serrin made,” said Lord Elot, in a low voice. They were alone in the temple, save for a guard at the door…but sound echoed. “The serrin made many crafts for small temples like this. To build goodwill amongst the people.” Sofy might have expected a man of Elot's leanings to be bitter at the practice. But Elot seemed subdued.

“Lord Elot, is something the matter?”

“The star is still here,” said Elot, pointing to the simple, eight-pointed wooden shape hung upon the wall behind the altar, below the coloured window. “Townsfolk would not willingly leave it behind. Perhaps they left in a hurry.”

Sofy frowned, and walked to the altar. A good Verenthane always, she took a knee and made the holy sign. Rising, she examined the star. It was simple wood, polished to a varnished gleam, all edges and joins worn away with careful attention. No wider than a man's shoulders, it would not be difficult to carry. Her attention settled on a discoloured mark, against the wall. An oil stain? She rubbed at it. It came away and soiled her finger. She sniffed it. It smelled nothing remarkable. Yet suddenly the cosy little temple felt cold, as though someone had thrown the doors open to a winter's wind.

She walked quickly to the doors, and stopped upon the steps. There in the courtyard before her, amidst a retinue of lords and knights, stood the Regent Balthaar Arrosh. He smiled at her, his regal cloak slung dashingly over one shoulder. Tall, and quite handsome, hair and moustache slightly curled.

He spread his hands to her. “Well, my dearest?” he asked. “Are you quite satisfied?”

Sofy forced a bright smile. “Quite satisfied, my husband.” She trotted down the steps, curtseyed, and came to kiss him chastely on the cheek. The nobility in the courtyard all smiled at that. Balthaar's relatives, some of them. Others, his allies, lords of the powerful provinces of the “Free Bacosh,” men who commanded great armies in their own right. All together, on this grand crusade. And her, the Lenay princess whose marriage secured the allegiance of Lenayin, without which current victories would never have been possible, however little those assembled here would like it admitted.

“We are not all barbarians in these lands,” Balthaar assured her, to the further amusement of the courtyard. In all the lowlands, of course, Lenayin had been known for centuries as the land of barbarians…and perhaps not so unfairly. “We wish to return these lands to their rightful state of rulership, to the natural order of men, not to see them turned to ash.”

“I understand, my husband,” Sofy said with a further curtsey, in apology. “I never did doubt you. I merely wondered at the temper of some of the men. Losses were great in the Battle of Sonnai Plain, I had feared some would seek revenge….”

“And surely some shall,” said Balthaar, “as such things occur in all wars. But trust me that I shall endeavour to keep such happenings to a minimum, and punish those who go against my order. These lands are ours now, and to destroy them is to cut off our own limbs.”

“I understand,” said Sofy. She did not entirely meet his gaze. Balthaar took her by the arms, and for one nervous moment, Sofy feared he had guessed her thoughts.

“Dearest,” he said instead, “I come because I have a favour to ask.” Sofy met his gaze now, surprised. “I would ask you to ride to Tracato. I cannot-I must ride with the army to pursue the Steel into Enora, where they must be defeated for once and all. But Tracato's nobility have risen against the serrin devils. Much power resides there, and wealth, and a link to our Elissian allies. My interests are there, even as I cannot be.

“But I would send a trusted emissary, with wit and guile to match any man, and a stout heart too, to see my interests represented. Would you do this for me?”

Tracato? Sasha had just ridden from Tracato, and told of horrors there. And, more reluctantly, of wonders, of learning and civilisation greater than anything in all the lands of Rhodia. Ride to Tracato, to see its wonders preserved, its heritage protected, its people saved from the slaughter that Sofy feared could still descend across all these lands? To try and find a new balance between the invaders and the invaded?