Sasha

Oh, and there it was. Koenyg the plotter. Dared she declare her true allegiances? Kessligh had warned her often enough that if she did, assorted northerners, nobles, bishops and fanatics would demand her head.

Sasha glared at him. Koenyg met her gaze calmly. A face much unlike Krystoff's-solid, where Krystoff had been lean; trimmed and presentable, where Krystoff had often been wild. Occupying chambers that had once been Krystoff's. They should still be his, Sasha thought bitterly. They would still be his, had not Krystoff offended so many of those same northerners, nobles, bishops and fanatics. Krystoff had fought them, but Koenyg sat at his private dining table and had drinks with them.

Would you wield the axe yourself, brother, she wondered bitterly. If the time came to dispose of me, like they once disposed of him?

'Did you send Martyn Ansyn to try and scare me?' she demanded once more.

'First, apologise to His Holiness.'

Sasha glared. 'I'll do nothing of the sort.'

Koenyg shrugged. 'Then we have nothing to talk about.'

To Sasha's right, the curtains to Koenyg's bedchambers were abruptly pulled back and there stood Princess Wyna. She wore white, the colours of northern mourning, her light hair pulled back severely from her face. She was pretty, perhaps, in the way that a simple sculpture might be pretty, or a painting. The beauty of form, with high cheekbones and pale green eyes. But there was no beauty of warmth, or happiness.

'My children are saying their midday prayers,' she informed them coldly. 'Whatever this business of yours, it should not be so loud to disturb the mourning rituals beneath a woman's own roof.'

'My apologies, my sweet,' said Koenyg. 'I do try to keep a civil tone at all times. My sister is challenged in this regard.'

Wyna's pale eyes fixed on Sasha. Weeks it now was since Lord Rashyd Telgar had died, and still Wyna mourned for her father.

'Sister,' Wyna said to Sasha coolly. 'How do you fare?'

'Well enough today,' Sasha said darkly. 'It's tomorrow that concerns me.'

'Tomorrow concerns us all,' said Wyna. She walked primly to her husband's side, her white dress swishing. 'I could not help but overhear through the curtain. Has my loyal servant Yuan Martyn been causing you some concern, dear sister?'

'Yuan Martyn has been causing the king's justice some concern,' Sasha replied.

Wyna slipped her hand around Koenyg's elbow. 'You seem very concerned for justice toward that mindless barbarian,' said Wyna with a slight frown. 'Pray tell me, where is the justice for my dear departed father whom he murdered?'

Sasha's eyes narrowed. You did send him, you ice-cold bitch. Wyna's gaze was as hard as glass. 'If the king's justice does not extend to all Lenayin,' Sasha replied, 'even to mindless barbarians, then what possible use is that justice at all?'

'Mama?' came a boy's voice from the curtains. Sasha looked, and saw four-year-old Dany Lenayin standing in the doorway by the drawn curtain. 'I said my prayers, Mama.'

'Of course you did,' said Koenyg, walking to the boy with arms outstretched. Dany went to him and Koenyg scooped up his son, holding him effortlessly seated in the crook of one arm. 'Dany, say hello to your Auntie Sashandra.'

Dany had already said hello to his Auntie Sashandra upon her first arrival in Baen-Tar, but he turned and looked anyway. He was a pale boy, with dark hair like his father, but the features were mostly his mother's. Something about the pallid complexion, and the thin set of his lips, reminded Sasha abruptly of… Usyn, she realised. The boy looked like his Uncle Usyn. Gods and spirits forfend that he actually grew up to be like Usyn.

'I saw you playing lagand yesterday,' said Dany. His eyes and voice were too calm for a boy his age.

'And I saw you in the stands,' Sasha replied.

'You play very well,' said Dany. 'Not as well as my papa, though.'

Sasha's lips twitched. 'On the contrary, I thought I played somewhat better than your papa.'

Dany looked at his father. 'She's not very ladylike, is she, Papa? Nor very polite.'

'Auntie Sashandra was very close to your late Uncle Krystoff,' Koenyg explained to his son. 'She's very much like Uncle Krystoff was.'

'Uncle Krystoff was a very strange man, wasn't he, Papa?'

'No one truly knows what Uncle Krystoff was, Dany,' said Koenyg. There was a darkness in his eyes as they met with his sister's. An old anger, never entirely quenched. 'He remains a mystery to many, even to this day. Some say he was not truly a Verenthane.'

'If he was not a Verenthane, Papa, then what was he?'

Sasha stared at the boy. It scared her that he could so innocently ask such a question. What indeed? What was a Lenay, if not a Verenthane? It was almost as though the wild, ancient half of traditional Lenayin had been erased from these people's memory entirely.

A memory struck her-leaping onto Krystoff's bed one morning to wake him. He'd wrestled her over, kicking and squealing, and tried to bite her on the neck. And over there, by the ornate wooden cabinets of glasses and plates, he'd shown her how a wondrous serrin invention-a looking glass-could burn a hole in an old piece of cloth when the sun fell through the open window just right. And back in the front room, he'd carried her in circles on his back, responding to her tugs on his ears, or her heels on his thighs, as a horse would to a rider's reins or stirrups. Once, she'd made a mistake, told him to go when she meant stop, and he'd careened straight into the wall. They'd fallen to the floor together, laughing.

Now, Koenyg and his Hadryn wife slept in his bed, and entertained by his table, and hung gaudy pictures of Verenthane saints on his walls. And it hit her, suddenly-the great, terrible injustice of it all. If he'd lived, she might not have become what she was today. But if he'd lived… well, there would not burn this endless pain in her heart, that burned all the more terribly every time she set eyes upon Koenyg.

'He may not have been a Verenthane,' Sasha told Koenyg, coldly. 'He may not have been always polite, and he may not have been always sensible. But he was my brother. Gods know what you are.'

She turned and strode out, leaving the stone and their memories in her wake.

The foul mood stayed with her all the way down to the Great Hall, along gloomy hallways and flagstone floors. Memories of Krystoff. Her father, Koenyg, Kessligh, Damon, Sofy, herself… they all remembered a different Krystoff, a Krystoff shaped as much by their own personal needs and desires as by any truthful recollection. She'd needed Krystoff for her soulmate. Her father had needed an heir. Koenyg, a competitor to overcome. Kessligh, an uma. To Damon, he'd been yet another overbearing elder brother to measure up to. Perhaps only Sofy could claim any objectivity where Krystoff was concerned. Sofy, who was the most objective person on most things, it seemed.

So how did Sofy do it? Perhaps, it occurred to her, it was because Sofy was not selfish. Sofy did not harbour any great ambitions for herself and did not impose her self-importance upon others.

People saw what they wanted to see, Kessligh always said. They saw the world in terms that would paint themselves in the best possible light and excuse all their flaws, preferably by blaming them on someone else. The Nasi-Keth taught men and women not to be perfect, but merely to know themselves and to know their own wants and desires. Knowing that, a person might begin to understand his or her own prejudices and assumptions, and act against them. Kessligh had never claimed to be perfect, he merely claimed to make an effort. So what about me, Sasha wondered. What do I want? Was she so self-centred that she'd never be able to see the truth? How could she ever know anyone around her if she wasn't even sure of herself? Hells, she didn't even know if she was Verenthane, Goeren-yai or Nasi-Keth. Her own brother had challenged her to declare herself, and she didn't know what to say. Even after the duel at Halleryn, she still did not know. She knew what her heart said. But, in her life, to be ruled entirely by her heart would be suicide.

The day did not improve. After lunch, she did what she usually did when her mood was foul and visited the stables. Horses, she'd discovered, spoke a quiet, foreign language of posture and emotion. After a while immersed in it, she found her very human concerns beginning to fade. This visit, however, she discovered that Peg's right hind hoof was developing a crack about a horseshoe nail, and the shoe would need replacing.

The blacksmith's shop occupied a large, covered area to the stable's rear, facing directly onto the inside of the looming city wall. There were several blacksmiths, in fact, and they were clearly busy, their furnaces roaring, hammers clanging and new, glowing red horseshoes and nails being added to respective piles. Many horses