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.'
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
