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.
