talking about horses, or swordwork, or the doings of other Baerlyn children, and how stupid they all were. But Andreyis had survived his first battle with glory, a rider from the rear had told her, and now rode with his comrades as an equal for the first time.
Now she felt more apart from that idyllic childhood world than ever. Kessligh, the towering pillar of those years, had become someone far different than she'd realised. Andreyis was no longer a boy, but a warrior, blooded in battle. Baerlyn had lost Dobyn the drummer, whose wonderful rhythms would no longer fill the Steltsyn Star on a rowdy evening, and Tesseryl the farmer, who would no longer share fresh mountain olive and goat curd with his neighbours. Farmer Lyndan, from whom Kessligh had often bought chickens, had lost a hand-a common enough injury in cavalry exchanges. But he'd been in good spirits, declaring that he and Geldon the baker could now compare stumps, and that chickens required no more than five fingers anyhow. Nothing was as it had been, and there was no going back.
Ahead, Sasha realised that someone was singing. It was a low, gentle voice, barely audible above the plodding of hooves and the shifting of harness. But it was beautiful, and strange, of lilting melody and haunting melancholy. The singer did not seem to wish to bring attention to herself, yet all murmured conversation behind ceased as men listened to the song. It was Aisha, Sasha realised, and her voice was fair indeed.
She seemed to sense, then, that the attention was on her, and sang louder. Clear notes drifted on the moonlit air, high against the soaring valley sides. Sasha could not make out the exact words, but it seemed that she sang of a lost friend, of suffering seen and partaken in, and of beloved lands, family and friends far away. The gentle swaying of Sasha's saddle seemed in time to the ceaseless murmur of the never-ending river, and the vast, beautiful silence of the fields, farms and cottages. She found herself thinking of all the strands in her life that had brought her to this point-of Krystoff and Kessligh, of Torvaal and her mother. And those more recent faces-Sofy, Damon, her friends in Baerlyn, and Andreyis and Lynette in particular. Jaryd. Captain Tyrun. Of friends made upon the road, and then lost forever.
Tears prickled at her eyes. To her side, she saw that Sofy too rode with tears in her eyes. And yet, for all her sadness, she rode with a newfound confidence, straight-backed and certain in the saddle. Whatever the tears, her eyes never stopped wandering as she gazed about at this legendary sight in wonder. Sasha extended a hand down to her. Sofy looked up, clasped her sister's hand, and smiled.
Twenty-One
Sasha awoke to the disorientation of a comfortable bed and blankets. She looked across the little room and found Sofy's bed empty. Daylight streamed through the window and, with it, the sounds of camp from the lower slopes – whinnying horses and soldiers at early muster. Somewhere distant, she fancied she could hear the yells and grunts of morning drill as soldiers trained upon an available patch of ground. Beyond that, drumming from the Udalyn wall. Sometimes it seemed that they'd never stop. Surely they'd be getting tired, after two days and nights without pause.
She blinked at the ceiling, massaging her aching shoulder, and trying to clear her head from sleep. It was the third morning after the victories of Ymoth and the Yumynis Plain. The previous evening, the king himself had arrived at the head of an army of nearly six thousand. Torvaal, at least, was taking no chances. The banners last evening had suggested that Koenyg was with him, and probably Damon as well, but the light had been poor and the royal messenger had not bothered to clarify. She was to meet with the king this morning. The very thought was enough to make her wish she could roll over and go back to sleep.
The little room had a stone-paved floor covered by a thick rug. The beds were of simple wooden frame. The room, and the entire cottage, had a simple dignity that appealed to her.
From beyond the window, she could hear Sofy humming a tune in the garden. The splash of water from a pail. An inaudible question from one of the guards… although Sasha could guess. A cheerful reply, and the splash of more water being gathered, then poured. Sasha smiled. Sofy would give the entire guard contingent green thumbs soon enough. Kessligh would approve.
Sasha stretched aching limbs, careful of her shoulder, and then began to dress in clean clothes she'd washed the day before, and dried before the fire that night. She'd washed herself too, in the warm water, and what a luxury that had been. Once dressed, she straightened out the bed and made a spirit sign to the house spirit for watching over her and her sister while they slept… not that she truly believed in such things, but because she suspected the Udalyn who owned this house might, and it was considered bad luck to leave such things neglected for any period.
Stepping into the main room, she found that the interior guard had already started a fire in the central pit and was boiling some water.
'Hello!' said the guard with a bright smile. 'Would you like some tea?' Sasha blinked. It was Andreyis.
'I'd love some,' she replied with a sleepy grin, trying to brush her hair back into place with both hands as she walked over. 'How did you grab this duty?'
Andreyis grinned even more broadly, and looked smug. 'The honour is being given to all those of outstanding service. The men chose me to represent Baerlyn.' And he shrugged, stirring the tea with a wooden spoon. 'I know they're just being nice. And I don't think any of them really fancied the morning shift.'
Sasha considered him as she blinked sleep from her eyes. Was it her imagination, or did he wear the sword at his hip with greater confidence now? And had he even filled out a little within his jacket?
Andreyis poured the tea-it was strong, as he knew she liked it. They talked of the men and the horses. It had been another delight to discover that of her beloved horses, only one had been left behind at Ymoth, and that only for a strained hindleg.
Teriyan had embraced her upon first seeing her after the battles, and had called her a 'bloody genius,' professing that he'd expected half of them to wind up dead even if things went well. 'If you hadn't seen straight through that snotty little bastard, we'd have met them on even terms and lost five times as many men! You saved an incredible number of men, Sasha! We're all damn proud of you, and Kessligh will be too when he hears of it!' Which had made Sasha feel at least a little better, about Dobyn and Tesseryl in particular… but not enough.
Halfway through tea, the front door opened and Sofy entered, carrying an empty bucket that held gardening tools, her hands smeared in rich, black dirt. 'Good morning!' she said brightly, depositing the bucket on the table.
'Highness,' said Andreyis, and bowed.
'Oh, stop that!' Sofy reprimanded with a slap at his arm. 'Sasha, I've already told him that he's like an old friend, but he keeps bowing.'
'It is my honour and privilege,' said Andreyis, with a faintly mischievous confidence.
'I wish you'd bow like that to me occasionally,' Sasha offered past her cup.
'Not bloody likely,' Andreyis retorted with a grin. Sasha and Sofy laughed.
Many had seemed to expect Sofy to trade pants and jacket for her dress and resume princessly ways once some semblance of civilisation had been restored. Certainly any number of young soldiers remained ready and eager to wait upon her every need. And yet Sofy remained in the clothes she'd ridden in, alternating between those and some others she'd borrowed from the cottage, seeming to belong to a boy of younger years. When asked, she'd simply smiled and said, 'There will be plenty of time for dresses later, I'm sure.'
Much of the past two days, she'd spent watering and tending to the gardens, accumulating dirt stains on clothes and face, and becoming sweaty in the warm midday sun. Sasha was sure that 'happy' hardly described Sofy's mood. But it was equally plain that whatever unhappiness there was, the gardening was a part of the cure.
Sasha went outside to sit on the wooden bench before the lower garden and survey the scene as she ate some breakfast. Sunlight fell upon the valley's far slope, although this, the eastern side, remained in shadow. Snowcaps upon the further mountains gleamed in the light, and the terraced fields, cottages, orchards and trails along the valley's western side shone in serene, golden detail.
Across the valley floor below camped her army… if one could call it a camp. There were no tents, of course, although men were sharing empty accommodation on rotating shifts. There were many, many hundreds of horses across the green fields to either side of the Yumynis, and many thousands more back to the south. They were more
