Joel Shepherd - Sasha

"Master Jaryd never met a bosom with which he couldn't hold a conversation," said Sasha with a sideways glance.

Jaryd grinned. "Yours is disappointingly quiet."

"You just haven't asked it the right questions." Jaryd laughed. "These treaties of marriage are ludicrous," Sasha continued. "Ranash will obey the throne simply because their lord's daughter shares a prince's bed? Hadryn's behaviour has barely changed since Koenyg married Wyna… and little Dany now gives them a Hadryn in the line of succession."

"The other lords will not be happy if I marry another northern girl," said Damon. Her brother's eyes were joyless in the wind-blown torchlight. Damon the petulant, he'd been called before. Lately, however, he'd been Damon the grim. "This line of princes was going to be a rich vein to be mined, but Krystoff died and Wylfred now thinks to take the holy vows, and suddenly, with Koenyg wedded, five available princes are only two. It's just me and Myklas left, and I fear the competition will be fierce."

"It's the creeping feudalisation of Lenayin," said Kessligh.

Jaryd frowned. "The what?"

"Before King Soros," said Kessligh, "there were no lords and titles, just chieftains, clans and regional allegiances that split into warfare as often as they came together. But Soros didn't only bring the gods from the lowlands, he also brought nobility, land titles and all the rest. He thought he was bringing civilisation to the barbarians. Lowlands civilisation. Now, the lords see that their powers do not match those of their lowlands cousins and they push for more. In the name of civilisation, of course."

"It'll never work," Sasha said firmly. "Lord Aynsfar of Neysh tried it just a few years ago, brought a hundred hire-swords from the lowlands and declared himself ruler of his "ancestral lands". But Goeren-yai came from near and far, killed his hire-swords and took his head. No man or woman of Lenayin will be anyone's serf-it might be the lowlands way, but not here."

"You're talking of the murder of Lord Aynsfar!" Jaryd realised, suddenly aghast. "How can you… how can you approve of that barbarity? They tied him down and took his limbs one joint at a time until…"

"I heard it was a swift blow to the neck," Sasha interrupted, turning to walk backward on the undulating grass, facing him. "I also heard that he was warned repeatedly, but gave only threats in return. Do the lowlands ways appeal to you, Jaryd? Would you like to inherit lands for your family? Allow minor lords to levy the royal tax instead of the king?"

Jaryd gave a protesting smile, but Damon's eyes were now on him as well, and curious. "I… I hadn't given it that much thought… but, I mean, what's the harm? Lowlands customs work very well and…"

"In the lowlands they work well," said Damon.

"No harm?" Sasha added, incredulously. "Would you like to be ruled by a succession of lords, ladies and knights even before we get to Baen-Tar royalty? It was a great enough feat to get ordinary Lenays to swear allegiance to one king in Baen-Tar, you'd add all these other fools on top of that and expect them to accept it?"

"But…" Jaryd was flustered now. Sasha doubted he'd ever been challenged to justify his own privilege before in his life. "But the noble families already have authority over their regions…"

"Horse shit," said Sasha. "The nobles derive their authority from the king and from each other, and that's only if they pray to the lowlands gods and have loads and loads of money to begin with. No one ever asked the rural folk, Jaryd. In their eyes, the nobility is just another strange little clan, all inter-bred and foreign, and nothing to do with their daily lives.

"They pay taxes to the king because he's the king, and the small tax to the provincial lords because they're the king's men, and because it occasionally does some good with roads and irrigation channels and bridges and the like. The rest of them are just dogs around the dinner table as far as the villagers are concerned, whining for scraps."

"But a noble lord offers protection to his people with his forces!" Jaryd protested.

"In the Bacosh, they use armies paid for by the peasants' coin to murder and terrorise them," Sasha said firmly, still walking backward. "In the Bacosh, the ordinary folk have neither the weapons nor the skills to fight back. Lenayin is vastly different. They don't need your protection, Jaryd, and they certainly don't want it, and they'll fight you tooth and nail if you try to impose it upon them."

She nearly spoiled her speech by tripping on uneven ground, stumbling to recover her balance. "Just… please," she added, skipping sideways, "as a favour to me, look about you on this ride. Talk to your low-ranked men. Insist they be honest with you. It's not only sad that you should misunderstand your own people, it's dangerous."

They crossed the wooden bridge once more, the Hadryn camp laid before them, a flickering line of campfires and shadowy activity.

"My Lords," said one of the Royal Guards as they approached the main line of tents, drawing their attention forward. Rising from the light of a large campfire were a small cluster of well-dressed Hadryn men, buckles and clasps gleaming in the firelight. They strode forward, a wall of weaponry and self-importance.

"Did your negotiations go well, Prince Damon?" came the loud voice of Usyn Telgar. Some of his men laughed with ugly humour. "Negotiation," in the northern tongues, had never been an honourable word. It reeked of compromise and cowardice. The Royal Guard stopped and parted, Damon coming forward to confront the young Telgar directly.

"Well enough," Damon said. "Did you wish to raise some matter with me?"

"Your sister," said another man, with great sarcasm, "appears to claim the title of saviour of the Goeren-yai!" The new speaker was dressed in the travelling finery of northern nobility, short-haired with a little, trimmed goatee. He'd been drinking, Sasha judged. They all had. "A message arrived from Perys just now, apparently she inflicted great carnage there in the name of pagan spirits! These claims are an insult and, in the name of the devout House of Varan, I demand an apology!"

"You'll get nothing," Damon replied. "My sister is not responsible for the claims others make. I suggest, Master Farys Varan, that you do not raise your voice in her direction again."

"Pah!" Farys spat, with a blaze of anger. "She ceased to be a Verenthane princess when she left Baen-Tar! You have no brotherly claim on her honour, Prince of Baen-Tar! These pagan lies dishonour the names of brave Hadryn warriors who die for the honour of their gods! Do not defend her, sir! She comes here upon our lands and she has the temerity to claim victories over Verenthane warriors after joining forces with barbarian scum to celebrate their deaths!"

"Your lands, Master Farys?" Damon replied, darkly furious. "We stand upon the lands of Taneryn. Do you claim them?"

Sasha's gaze ran along the line of Hadryn faces. All, clearly, were of noble Hadryn families. Their ages varied, from hot-headed youngsters, to coldeyed, calculating elders. Sasha wondered, her heart assuming a familiar, unpleasant rhythm, if they'd put Master Farys up to it. There were an increasing number of armed men gathering behind to watch.

"We claim no lands," Usyn Telgar said coldly, his face strained as though withholding some great outburst. "We claim only the satisfaction of avenging our lord…"

"I claim more!" shouted Master Farys, stepping forward to thrust an accusing finger past Damon's shoulder at Sasha… and Sasha noted the silver-haired man at Farys's side give a cold, satisfied smile at the outburst. Farys's eyes were blazing, his face flushed red. "I demand an apology from this false princess! The honour of Hadryn has been slighted! If it were not enough that the god-fearing men of Lenayin had to suffer the insult of a cowardly, woman-chasing, pagan-loving fool of an heir named Krystoff for so long, is it now our fate that we must suffer his sister's-"