Sasha atobas-1 Read online

  "It's the Rathynal, isn't it?" Sasha said, arms wrapped about herself, only partly to repress the shivers brought on by the cold air. "That's why everyone's so jumpy."

  "There's a lot to be jumpy about," said Kessligh, raising a hand in answer to the horsemen's respectful hails. "Such a large meeting can only reopen old wounds. Especially with foreign lowlanders invited. There's war in the offing, Sasha. Us old warhorses can smell it in the air. Damn right we're jumpy. You should be too."

  "There won't be a war," Sasha said, with forced certainty as they walked down the long line of stables. "I just can't imagine we'll get involved in some stupid war in the Bacosh. It's all too far away."

  "It's nearer than Saalshen," Kessligh said grimly. "And serrin come here all the time. Be careful of Master Jaryd-I know you derive great joy from boxing the ears of stuck-up young idiots like him, and I sympathise. But Rathynal is a time for all the great lords to make great decisions, and this Rathynal shall be greater than most. Lord Krayliss is a huge obstacle in such meetings-so long as he continues to sow division, Lenayin shall be forever divided, and the Verenthane nobility will never have its way on any great issue. Lord Krayliss delights in twisting the knife and ruining their grand plans at the most inopportune moments.

  "Whether you like it or not, Verenthane nobility hear the rumours connecting you to the Goeren-yai, and to Krayliss, and they worry. In Lord Aystin's eyes, there may not be very much difference between you and Krayliss at all, and so I'd be surprised if his heir Jaryd feels differently. You can be certain Lord Rashyd and the northerners are not the only Lenay lords who would love to see Krayliss deposed and the entire ruling line of Taneryn replaced with a good Verenthane family. It would not surprise me to find that whatever incident has occurred, it was cooked up by Lord Rashyd with support from other Lenay lords, possibly including Great Lord Aystin Nyvar of Tyree himself."

  "You're telling me that the gallant and dashing Master Jaryd Nyvar may wish to plant a knife in my back?" Sasha suggested with some incredulity.

  "I'm telling you to be careful. Verenthanes frequently claim that all the old blood-feuds and bickering disappeared with the Liberation and the coming of Verenthaneism-don't believe it. It's still there, just hiding. It's sneaking self-interest disguised beneath a cloak of smiling Verenthane brotherhood, and that makes it even more dangerous than when it was out in the open, as in older times… or more dangerous, at least, if you are its target. Trust me-I was born in Petrodor, and I've seen it. In such disputes of power, it's always the knife you can't see that kills you."

  "I'd prefer the old days," Sasha snorted. "At least then rival chieftains killed their opponents face to face."

  "Don't be stupid," Kessligh said shortly. "A thousand corpses honourably killed is no improvement on a handful of victims strangled in the night."

  Terjellyn hung his head over the stable door, having heard them coming. Kessligh gave him an affectionate rub as a stable boy hovered, awaiting anything Baerlyn's two most famous residents might require.

  "You'll be with Jaegar all night?" Sasha asked. The unhappiness must have shown in her voice, for Kessligh gave her a sardonic look.

  "I think you can handle your brother for one night," he remarked. "It would be nice if I could discuss Baerlyn's affairs with Jaegar before we ride. We might be gone several weeks." Terjellyn nudged at his shoulder. The big chestnut stallion was a direct descendant of Tamaryn, Kessligh's mount during the great Cherrovan War thirty years gone. He'd ridden Tamaryn all the way from Petrodor, a mere sergeant among the Torovan volunteer brigades that had flooded into Lenayin following the invasion of the Cherrovan warlord Markield. The Liberation seventy years gone, the Archbishop of Torovan had not wished to see the thriving "Verenthane Kingdom" of Lenayin lost to a raging barbarian mob and had commanded Torovan believers to ride west on a holy war. Kessligh, however, had not ridden for faith.

  Tamaryn had then borne him through the better part of an entire year's fighting, in the wooded valleys and mountains of Lenayin, during which Kessligh had risen to lieutenant, then captain, and then Commander of Armies for all Lenayin, and inflicted a thrashing upon the Cherrovan from which they had not recovered to this very day. Ever since, Kessligh had never had a primary ride that was not a descendant of Tamaryn-Terjellyn's great grandfather. It was the only superstition Sasha had ever known him to concede.

  "Be nice to Damon. Try not to provoke him too much."

  Sasha stared elsewhere as Kessligh opened the stable door, and gave Terjellyn a once-over before mounting bareback. The big stallion, a more mature and refined gentleman than her Peg, walked calmly into the courtyard.

  "We'll be off before dawn," Kessligh told her from the height of his mount. "We'll go home first, get the gear, then rejoin the column on the way to Taneryn." Sasha nodded, arms folded against the cold. "What's your problem?"

  "What'll happen to Krayliss?" she asked.

  "You care that much?"

  "About the fate of the Goeren-yai?" Sasha shot back. "How could I not?"

  Kessligh exhaled hard, glancing elsewhere with a frown.

  "I don't know what to tell you," he said finally. "You chose this path for yourself…"

  "I did not," Sasha retorted, sullenly. It chose me."

  "You are still your father's daughter, Sasha. Whatever new role and title you bear now." His eyes refixed upon her with narrowed intent. "None of us can escape the accidents of our birth so easily."

  "That's not what you told Damon back there. What was all that about me being your uma, and nothing more should matter?"

  "One side of an argument," Kessligh said calmly. "I'm sure Damon can provide the other side himself."

  "You should have chosen another uma. One without the family baggage."

  Kessligh's lean, wry features thinned with a faint smile. "I don't recall that I did choose you. In that, you chose me."

  Sasha gazed up at him. Kessligh's expression, alive with the dancing shadows of lamplight, was almost affectionate.

  "Don't sleep in," he warned her. "And for the gods' own sakes, stay away from that rye beer. It's murder." And he nudged Terjellyn with his heels, clattering off up the dark, cobbled path to the courtyard, and the laughing merriment of men.

  Sleep did not come easy. For a long time, Sasha lay beneath the heavy covers and gazed at the ceiling. The room glowed with the orange embers from the fire. From the second bed, furthest from the door, she could hear little sound from Damon's bed.

  She would have preferred her own, separate room, as was the usual arrangement when she had cause to stay overnight at the Star. But Damon having acquired the lordly quarters, form dictated that one royal should not sleep in lesser accommodation than the other. Such an occurrence might spread rumours of a division.

  Sasha hated it all. Hated the gossip and sideways looks, hated the out-oftowners who stared and whispered, hated the northerners who sneered and made smirking comments amongst themselves. Had always hated it, in all her living memory. And her memory, Kessligh had frequently noted with something less than pleasure, was vast. She recalled the echoing stone halls of Baen-Tar Palace all too well, with their expensive tapestries and paintings. Recalled well the texture of the grass in the little courtyards between buildings where she had sat for lessons on a sunny day, and found far greater interest in the beetles and flower gardens than in classical texts or Torovan history

  … to say nothing of scripture, or embroidery.

  Recalled the look her instructors, servants and various assorted minders had given her, the "Sashandra-always-in-trouble" look, that expected bad behaviour and was frequently presented with such. She'd never understood those rules. Should a deep-cushion mattress not be used for jumping? And what on earth was wrong with throwing scraps of food to the pigeons that sat upon her bedroom window ledge? And running in hallways, what possible harm could it cause?

  "Unladylike," had been the routine answer. And undignified, for a princess of Lenayin. "Then I don't want to be a princess
of Lenayin!" had been her typically untactful, six-year-old reply. They'd locked her in her room and given her a composition assignment to fill the time. She recalled even now the blank page of paper sheaf, and the little, sharp-tipped quill that looked like it had once been a waterbird feather.

  Was that natural? To recall the experiences of a six-year-old with such detailed clarity? Kessligh had said, only half-seriously, that it stopped her from growing up, so tightly did she clutch to the memories of her past. Sasha had answered that on the contrary, it spurred her to leave that time even further behind. But now, lying in the warm, orange glow of the Star's lordly quarters, she wondered.

  She recalled throwing the sheaf of papers out the window, scattering pigeons from the ledge, and papers all over the gardens below. Not being able to do what one chose had seemed a great injustice. Her minders had concluded that she was spoiled, and had determined to make life more difficult, removing more privileges, and increasing the severity of punishments. That had only made her angry. The next time she'd thrown something out of the window, it had been heavy, and she hadn't opened the window first.

  Damon, of course, had since challenged her recollections of those times. It had not been all her minders' fault, he'd proclaimed, upon her first visit back to Baen-Tar in four years, at the ripe old age of twelve. He'd been fifteen, somewhat gangling and with two left feet – not an uncommon condition for boys, Kessligh had assured her, and one reason why girls were easier to train. She'd been born wild, Damon had insisted. Wild like a bobcat, breaking things and biting people from the moment she'd learned how to walk. They'd only been trying to stop her from killing someone-most likely herself. And all of it had been no one's fault but her own.

  Twelve-year-old Sasha had punched him in the nose.

  Whatever the cause of the madness, Krystoff had been the cure. Krystoff, the heir to the throne of Lenayin, with his flowing black hair, his easy laugh, and his rakish, good-humoured charm. Eleven years her senior, the second eldest after Marya, who was now safely married to the ruling family of Petrodor. Sasha suffered a flash of very early memory… hiding behind a hay bale in a barn, watching Kessligh and Krystoff sparring with furious intensity.

  Gods she must have been young. She tried to recall the dress-her memory of dresses was particularly excellent, much the same way as a longtime prisoner must surely recall various types of shackles and chains. The frilly, tight-stitched petticoats? Yes, it must have been, she remembered yanking at them beneath her pleated, little-girl's dress, trying to stop them from tugging as she crouched. She'd been five, then, that night in the barn… and it had been night, hadn't it? Yes, she recalled the flickering lamplight and the musty smell of burning oil behind the familiar odour of hay.

  But there hadn't been any fire damage to the northern wall in that memory. She'd nearly burned it all down at the beginning of her sixth year, when she'd been caught sneaking and forcibly removed. She'd grabbed and thrown a bale hook in her fury as they'd carried her away, striking a nearby lamp and sending hay bales up in roaring flames. Serrin oil, she'd later learned-long-lasting, but very flammable.

  Kessligh had seen that throw, however, and been impressed. That had been about the time Krystoff had begun to take pity on her, taking an interest in one of his sisters at an age when the others, save for Marya, might as well have been invisible. She recalled him entering her room the day following the fire, an athletic and well-built seventeen, and surely the strongest, most handsome man in all Baen-Tar to her worshipful eyes. She'd been crying. He'd asked her why. And she'd explained that she was to be kept under lock and key for a week. No sunlight, save what fell naturally through her bedroom window. No natural things, save the pigeons that squabbled and made silly sounds on her window ledge. No grassy courtyards. No running, and definitely no chance to sneak to the creaky old barn in the old castle and watch the Lenayin Commander of Armies attempt to whip her eldest brother into a respectable heir and Nasi-Keth uma.

  Krystoff had melted. And suddenly, in the following days, she was free. He'd promised her that if she just behaved herself, she could come and watch him train that night. She'd been courteous and attentive all through that day, and had performed all her required tasks without so much as fidgeting. Her minders had been incredulous. And Krystoff, true to his word, had found her a nice, high hay bale to sit on and watch proceedings in the barn that evening after dinner… for Krystoff trained twice a day, she'd been amazed to learn, and did many other exercises in between. He was going to be not only heir of Lenayin, but Nasi-Keth, like Kessligh. She had not, of course, grasped anything of the broader significance of this historic fact, nor the disquiet it had surely caused amongst devout Verenthanes everywhere, despite assurances that in Petrodor, most Nasi-Keth were also Verenthanes, and found no conflict between the two. All Sasha had known was that it seemed awfully exciting.

  Kessligh, with curious humour, had even shown her some basic footwork when big brother Krystoff had needed a rest. She'd gotten it first go, slippered feet dancing on the dust and loose straw. Krystoff had encouraged her with typically infectious enthusiasm. They'd found her a broomstick, broken the end off and she'd used it for a practice stanch. She'd managed the basic taka-dan first time also-some of which had come from spying, and some from simple inspiration. She'd even gotten the tricky wrist-angle, and how it shifted with different footing. Krystoff had been excited enough to pick her up and spin her about, where another man might have felt slighted, upstaged by his little sister with a broomstick. Very few pupils ever simply "got" the svaalverd first time, not even serrin. Kessligh had just watched, his expression unreadable.

  From then on, within the privacy of the barn at evenings, there'd been instruction for Sasha also. Lessons and exercises, too, for her to perform in her room in early mornings, before the servants arrived to fill her morning bath, and dress her in their latest torture contraption, and brush her long, flowing hair. She'd kept that half-a-broomstick beneath her mattress, and when it was found and confiscated, she'd used the fire poker in her room instead. Those exercises had been her wonderful secret-something her minders could never take away-and she'd practised every time she'd found a private moment. Her minders did not approve of Krystoff's increasingly active role in her life, despite her improved behaviour. With improved behaviour had come high spirits, and a happy, rambunctious little Sashandra Lenayin had been every bit the challenge that a sullen, moody one had presented.

  They'd been kindred spirits, she and Krystoff. She recalled helping him to raid the kitchens when soldiers just arrived from impromptu exercises were hungry and unhappy at being told to wait until mealtime. Recalled Krystoff flustering the chief cook, and sweet-talking the giggling, blushing kitchen maids, while Sasha had stood on a chair, and loaded loaves of bread and bowls of soup onto trays for the queuing soldiers, who'd grinned at her and ruffled her hair.

  Another time, he'd somehow talked the proprietor of the training hall into admitting her-Krystoff had been said to own the knack of talking fish out of water, or chickens into flight. (Or virtuous Verenthane maidens into his bedchambers, many had also said, when they thought she couldn't hear.) There she'd watched athletic Lenay warriors drenched in sweat, pounding each other's defences with utmost confidence and swagger… until they'd come up against Krystoff's svaalverd, and found it like trying to swat a fly from the air with a wheelwright's hammer.

  Yet another time, rather naively, he'd introduced her to horses, and his little sister had fallen in love for a second time. Little Sashandra would abandon classes to go wandering around the stables, watching the stable boys and pestering the trainers for desperately coveted knowledge. And when the Royal Guards put on a formation display for a visiting foreign lord… well, no locks nor bars nor solid stone walls could hold her.

  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 c
eiling-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.