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-'
Sasha snapped and abruptly strode forward with a hand moving to her shoulder. Kessligh grabbed her arm, but she smacked it away with her other hand, spinning clear to draw her blade as weapons rang clear in the night air all around. Before any could move to strike, Sasha drew back her arm and hurled the sword point-first into the turf before Master Farys's feet. All froze, staring at the quivering blade.
'This dawn, Master Farys,' Sasha said icily, 'I challenge you to defend your honour.'
For a long moment, there was only the shuddering whistle of the wind and the flapping of banners. Then Farys laughed, high and slightly hysterical. 'You challenge me to a duel?' Disbelievingly. 'I cannot fight a woman!'
'Then you are a coward!' Sasha snarled.
Farys turned pure white, his newly drawn blade trembling within his hands. 'I should strike you down where you stand, whore!'
'With your guards and friends to back your flanks?' Sasha said contemp tuously. 'Need you so much assistance to defeat a single girl?' Farys's mouth worked open and closed in soundless fury. 'No answer? Will you not accept? Snivelling, whining, bed-wetting coward?'
Farys's clenched teeth parted and he let out a great, shuddering roar… yet did not advance. Sasha knew, from the darting eyes of the Hadryn before her, that Kessligh was close at her back, blade at the ready. That alone would make even the bravest, angriest, drunkest warrior think twice.
'I accept!' Farys bit out, hoarse with effort. 'Tomorrow at dawn, the lies and myths of the Goeren-yai princess die!'
The silver-haired man at Farys's shoulder placed a hand upon the younger man's arm, lowering his weapon with a final look of cold satisfaction. Farys's trembling hand lowered and he thrust past his companions toward the campfire. All about, there came the sound of sliding steel as blades retreated into sheaths, the line of Hadryn nobility fading back, their departing expressions both angry and smug.
'Sasha?' Damon said cautiously, stepping forward to stand at her side as she retrieved her sword from the turf, and wiped dirt from the end. 'Sasha, what did you just do?'
'I defended Krystoff's honour,' Sasha said shortly. Her heart was beating hard, but not with the fevered thumping of fear or excitement. This was colder, more calculating. Damon just stared at her, greatly pained. And it occurred to Sasha then, with only a mild surprise, that he feared for her life.
'Sasha, that was Farys Varan, son of Udys Varan! He's… he's known by all to be one of Hadryn's finest swordsmen…'
'Forget it,' Kessligh said grimly, taking a place at Sasha's side, eyeing the retreating Hadryn with calculation. 'Farys's a corpse. It's what happens after he's dead that worries me.'
Sasha could hear the hard displeasure in his voice. She didn't care. When the fury caught her like this, she rarely did.
Camp that night was an abandoned barn on the valley floor. Sasha sat on a hay bale, her back to one corner of the barn's outer wall, where it would shelter her from the wind. On the grass nearby, there were many sheep huddled-Sasha knew only because of the occasional, restless bleating, their woolly shapes mostly invisible in the darkness. She gazed at the stars for a long, long time, thinking of many things, yet of nothing in particular. Sleep seemed far away.
A dark shadow approached soundlessly to her left, from over by the barn's mouth. There was just enough light for her to make out Kessligh's familiar outline, even wrapped in heavy cloak and blanket. He settled onto the hay bale at her side without a word. For a while they sat together, uman and uma, and gazed at the stars.
'It's past time for my watch,' Kessligh said then.
'I won't sleep,' Sasha replied. 'I might as well take another watch if I'm to stay awake.'
'The surest way not to sleep is not to try,' Kessligh remarked. 'Meditate. I slept well enough during the war in full knowledge that I would fight the next day. You should manage.'
'Probably.' Somehow, she just couldn't manage the energy for one of their customary arguments of
