Joel Shepherd - Sasha

Sasha gazed across at him with great surprise. And smiled. Sofy had always told her to try being nice to Damon, rather than arguing with him all the time. Good things will come of it, she'd insisted. And once again, it seemed, her little sister was right. "Apology accepted," she said graciously. "You're not the only man to make such a judgment. There are thousands who believe such, up in the north."

Damon snorted. Then, "Has Kessligh told you of your standard? One story came from a man who was himself a master swordsman. He said he'd never seen anything like it."

Sasha sighed. "Praise from Kessligh is rare. He hates complacency."

"Can you best him sparring?"

"Sometimes. Maybe one round in three. More on good days, less on others." But Damon looked very impressed. Besting Kessligh at all was said to be a worthy achievement. Most men would have been happy with one round in ten. But then, for those who did not fight with the svaalverd, it was no fair contest.

"I still don't see how it's possible," Damon said, with a faint shake of his head. "For a woman. I have bested three Cherrovan warriors in combat. Combat is exhausting, for the fittest, strongest men."

Never "frightening," Sasha reflected. No Lenay man would ever admit so. "Yes, but you waste strength when you fight," she told him. "Hathaal, serrin call it. There's no direct translation in Lenay… energy, perhaps. Or maybe a life force, though serrin have too many names for that to count. A symmetry. A power derived from form, not bulk. The straight, sturdy tree is more hathaal than the crooked one, even if they are both as tall. You are stronger than me. But using svaalverd, I am more hathaal. And you cannot touch me."

Damon snorted. "So confident are you. We've never sparred."

"Tomorrow, perhaps?" Sasha said mildly.

"We ride first thing in the morning."

"Convenient."

"You know much of serrin lore," Damon remarked, ignoring her barbs.

"Of course. I am Nasi-Keth."

"Do you love the serrin?"

Sasha frowned. Footsteps creaked in the corridor outside, the last of the revellers coming upstairs to their beds. The dying fire managed one last, feeble pop. "I've yet to meet a bad or unpleasant one," she said after a moment.

"That doesn't answer my question."

And it was not, Sasha knew, such an innocent question. There was war afoot between the Bacosh and neighbouring Saalshen. Visiting merchants fuelled a wildfire of rumour, serrin travellers had been rare of late, and Kessligh's mood grim. She didn't like to think on it. There had been bad news from the Bacosh before-for many, many centuries, in fact, one endless succession of terrible internal wars over power, prestige and matters of faith. Those had come and gone. Surely these latest rumblings would follow.

"The serrin are a good and decent people," she answered. "Much of their lore, skills and trades has improved human lives beyond measure, from irrigation to building to medicines and midwifery… sometimes I wonder how we ever managed without them. Anyone who would make war on them will not gain my sympathy."

"They live on lands that are not theirs," Damon responded flatly. "Many include Verenthane holy sites. Sites of the birth of Verenthaneism itself. The Bacosh are the eldest and most powerful of Verenthane peoples, they'll not let the matter rest." Sasha rolled beneath her covers to fix her brother with an alarmed gaze.

"What have you heard?" she asked accusingly. Damon shrugged, his mood sombre.

"There is much anger. Talk of the Verenthane brotherhood uniting to take back the holy lands."

In all recent history, the Bacosh had only been united once. The man who accomplished it, Leyvaan of Rhodaan, had named himself king, and repaid the serrin who'd assisted his rise with invasion and slaughter. The serrin response had been devastating, crushing Leyvaan and his armies, and taking the three nearest Bacosh provinces for themselves. That had been two centuries ago, and today, the so-called "Saalshen Bacosh" remained in serrin hands. Many in the priesthood called those lands holy, and wanted them back, out of the clutches of godless, pagan serrin.

"Such talk has existed since Leyvaan the Fool created the whole mess in the first place," Sasha retorted. "The Saalshen Bacosh is a happy place. The only unhappy people are those outsiders who resent that fact. Besides, there is no Verenthane brotherhood. It's a myth."

"Even so," Damon said tiredly. "People talk, is all. Perhaps it will fade, I hope so. We have enough troubles in Lenayin without lowlands concerns thrust upon us also."

"Hear hear," Sasha murmured. But Kessligh's words remained with her: "War is in the air. Us old warhorses can smell it."

"You're not going to ask after Father's wellbeing also?" Damon queried into that silence.

"No," said Sasha. And tucked her warm, heavy blankets more firmly down about her neck. "Father has advisors enough to see to that already."

Jaryd Nyvar rode at the head of the Falcon Guards as the road wound uphill from Baerlyn, with Prince Damon at his left stirrup. The morning dawned bright and clear across rugged hillsides of thick forest and sparkling des. Cold air nipped at his cheeks, and the steaming breath of horse and men ningled about the column, so that it moved along the road like some great, puffing beast. The land in these parts was as beautiful as Jaryd'snative Tyree. Birds sang in the trees, and on the way out of town, a pair of handsome deer had startled across the road.

At the distance of perhaps one fold from Baerlyn, they encountered a pair of riders waiting for them on the road beside a narrow trail through the trees. Kessligh Cronenverdt and his brat uman. That trail, then, would lead to their horse ranch in the wilds. Prince Damon acknowledged them with a wave, which both returned. They fell into line several places further back, in plain cloaks to ward the morning chill, their back-worn swords invisible beneath those folds. An unremarkable and plain-looking pair, they seemed, amidst a column of Tyree green-and-gold, gleaming silver helms and polished boots. Unremarkable, that was, but for their horses-both stallions, one light bay, the girl's a charcoal black, and both beautiful to behold.

It was a reminder of Cronenverdt's past service, of the debt owed to him by the king. Jaryd had heard the mutterings of his father's men, that Cronenverdt was little more than a hired sword who had commanded from the king a steep ransom for his services. Jaryd thought it somewhat rich for wealthy nobles to accuse Kessligh of being a mercenary considering the plainness of the man living out here in the wilds with his uma. Cronenverdt could have commanded a far larger sum and lived in a grand holding, with lands and gardens and prospective wives clamouring for his hand. Instead, when Prince Krystoff had met an unfortunate end, he'd left the king's service and asked for nothing more than a grief-stricken, impossible brat of a princess to replace the uma he'd lost, and some horses.

Jaryd thought it far more likely that his fellow nobility were jealous of the man, partly for his accomplishments, and partly for the way in which he showed up their expensive tastes. It was surely not unreasonable that a man who had freely given his services, instead of being born into the obligation of service, should receive some gift in return? How to criticise such a man, who did not play by the rules that others understood? No wonder he made so many enemies amongst the ruling classes.

After a while riding along the forested hillside, Prince Damon fell back in the column to talk with Kessligh. Lieutenant Reynan took his place at Jaryd's side.

"The brat was up before dawn," said the lieutenant, rubbing sleepy eyes beneath his helm. "I'd thought to follow her, but that horse of hers is fast and doesn't mind a night-time torch. Mine gets all flighty near a flame."