Joel Shepherd - Sasha

Those had been the best days, when her newfound confidence had blossomed, and with it, her first true sense of self. She'd even made peace with her other brothers and sisters… or no, she reflected now as she gazed at the ceiling-maybe not peace. More like a truce. An uneasy and often hostile one, with occasional breaches caused by either party, but usually resolved in short order.

Given nine headstrong siblings, that had been no mean achievement. Other than Krystoff, Marya-the eldest-had been her best friend, and her marriage and departure for Petrodor had been a sad day indeed. Koenyg, then second-in-line for the throne behind Krystoff, had long been jealous of his elder brother's carefree popularity, and had spent much of his life attempting to become everything that Krystoff was not-disciplined, calm and sober. Her sister Petryna, now married to the heir of Lenayin's Yethulyn province, had been studious and sensible, and no lover of outrageous antics. Wylfred had preferred his own company and spent much of his free time in temple with his books. And then there was Damon, only a boy himself in all her Baen-Tar memories, and oh-so self-conscious and awkward in the presence of his overbearing, talented elder brothers. And Alythia, the glamorous one, who loved everything princessly that Sasha hated, and loved even more to demonstrate that fact to the world.

And then, of course, there were her two younger siblings, Sofy and Myklas… and her eyes widened. She had not asked anything about Sofy! Gods and spirits, how could she be so forgetful? She rolled her head upon the pillow and cast a glance across at Damon, apparently asleep beneath the covers. But there might be no time tomorrow, she reasoned.

"Damon," she called across the beds. "Damon. Are you awake?"

"If I said no, would you leave me alone?" came Damon's reply, muffled in the pillows. Sasha wasn't fooled-he couldn't sleep either. No wonder, given how heavily the weight of command usually sat upon his shoulders.

"How is Sofy?" Sasha asked him. "In all this fuss about Krayliss, I forgot to ask."

"Like Sofy," Damon retorted.

"Is she enjoying her studies?" Sasha pressed determinedly. Damon wasn't going to get off that easily. "She seemed happy in her last letter, but I sometimes wonder if she tells me everything."

"Sofy's always happy," Damon muttered. As if there were something vaguely offensive about that. "She asks about you a lot."

"Does she?"

"Oh yes. Every time a noble traveller arrives in court, having passed within scent of Valhanan, she never fails to corner him and ask for news of you."

Sasha smiled. "But she's well? Her last letter spoke of Alythia's wedding. She seemed very excited."

"Not nearly as excited as Alythia," said Damon. And rolled onto his back, appearing to abandon hope of sleep, at least for the moment. "But yes, Sofy is helping with the preparations. Alythia scolds her, and tries to be upset at her interference… she was unhappy with Sofy's suggestions for the ordering of vows and ceremonies, thinking that she knows best in everything. But of course, on reflection, she agreed that Sofy's ideas were best. As always."

For all Sasha's differences with Damon, they shared a common affection for their younger sister Sofy. It was mostly thanks to Sofy's mediation that Damon and Sasha had arrived at their present truce. Sasha was yet to be convinced of Sofy's faith in Damon, but she had conceded that her previous, less flattering impressions of him had been wide of the mark. But then, that was Sofy, always intervening, always drawing compromise from the most hardened of opinions.

"And the holy fathers are pleased with the wedding preparations?" Sasha asked, having heard a little of that controversy.

"It's ridiculous," Damon sighed. "Father Wynal now protests that the arrangements are not in full accordance with the scripture, but Alythia protests that she wants a traditional Lenay wedding like Marya and Petryna had…"

"Marya and Petryna's weddings were anything but traditional," Sasha snorted.

"Well, they had the fire and the dancing with hand painting…"

"That's hanei, Damon," Sasha corrected. "And the fire is tempyr, the purifier, the door between states of being. It symbolises a couple's transition into married life, the athelyn, the destruction of the old, making way for the new. It's the foundation of the Goeren-yai view of the universe."

"Sounds serrin," Damon remarked, with less interest than Sasha might have hoped. The ignorance of so many Verenthanes toward the old ways disgusted her. They had been their ways too, a hundred years before.

"Serrin and Goeren-yai belief has much in common," Sasha agreed, keeping her temper in check. Outbursts and lectures would serve no good purpose, she told herself firmly. "It's one reason the Goeren-yai and serrin have had such good relations for so long."

"Anyhow," Damon said dismissively. "Alythia thinks it's pretty, and the hand painting-the hanei-is. And so much more glamorous than a traditional Verenthane wedding."

"I'm glad I'm not the only one who thinks so," Sasha said sourly. "Verenthanes have to be the most morbid bunch, Damon. I hear in some parts of the Bacosh and the rest of the lowlands, women aren't even allowed to dance. Can you imagine?"

"I can't imagine," Damon admitted, frowning at the ceiling. "But then, being a Verenthane means different things from one land to another. Lenayin will always be Lenayin. That is one thing Goeren-yai and Verenthane shall always have in common in this land. I think I shall always have more in common with a Lenay Goeren-yai than with a lowlands Verenthane."

"We'll see if you still believe in Lenay brotherhood should you have the misfortune to encounter Family Telgar on this ride," Sasha said darkly.

"The men of the north are brave," Damon said shortly. "I won't prejudge them."

"It's not their bravery I question," said Sasha. "It's their humanity."

Damon made an annoyed face, looking across the space between their beds. "Seriously, Sasha, need you always pick a fight? You of all people who can afford it least. I'm well aware what you think of the Verenthane north, you don't need to hurl it at me at every opportunity. I can form my own opinions."

Sasha bit her tongue with difficulty. "And how is Myklas?" she asked, determined to prove to herself that she could simply move on and not spill blood upon the floor. Kessligh would be proud.

"Well," said Damon, with a note to his voice that suggested he too was surprised at the ease of his victory. "He'll become a fine swordsman. He's better than I was, at his age. Better than Koenyg, maybe. It's certainly not from hard work. It must be talent."

"Some things can't be taught," said Sasha, putting a hand behind her head upon the pillow. The air was cold upon her arm, whatever her undershirt and the fading warmth of the fire's embers. But beneath the heavy weight of skins and blankets, the warmth was delicious.

Damon gave her a long, curious glance, the fireplace illuminating one half of his face upon the pillows. "I heard that you fought," he said. "Last summer, when the Cherrovan pressed Hadryn hard. I heard tell of some stories. Deeds of yours."

"All lies."

"The stories were greatly in your favour," Damon added.

"Then they were all true," Sasha corrected, with a faint smile. The incursion had been, for the most part, yet another ridiculous waste of Cherrovan life. A new chieftain had required a blooding, the story went. And a blooding he had received, most of it his own. Surely the Cherrovan had not been so stupid during the centuries when they had ruled Lenayin and all the mountain kingdoms as their own.

"I had doubted your abilities, once," said Damon. "Even with Kessligh as your uman… I'd thought he'd only chosen you for other purposes. But the men bearing these stories are honest. It seems I was mistaken. And I apologise."