Tracato

“The law resides in this building,” Rhillian replied. “I defend it, as surely the feudalists would not, should they have attained the power they were plotting. I will submit to it, and you shall, and your sister shall, or there is nothing here to defend.”

“Anyone but you,” Sasha snapped, “and I might believe them. You’re serrin, and this game you don’t understand! How many cities will it take, Rhillian?”

Rhillian recalled the flames. Recalled the howling mobs, her friends hacked to pieces before her eyes. It wasn’t her fault. It couldn’t have been. “It was your game too. You’re as responsible as I.”

“You gave Maerler the Shereldin Star! You wanted the slaughter that followed! You killed thousands, with that one bloody act!”

“They threatened, Saalshen. They were weakened.”

“Aye, you weakened them so much Patachi Steiner declared himself king, and now marches to war against us! With leadership like that, you don’t need enemies, you’ll be the end of the serrinim all by yourself!”

Rhillian could have killed her, right there. She struggled for breath, and fought to keep her hands from trembling. Sashandra must have seen the fury in her eyes, but unlike most, she did not flinch. Rhillian knew she could not draw, not against this one. As formidable as she was herself, against Sashandra, no fight was evenly matched.

“What proof do you have of Lady Renine’s treason?” Sasha pressed. “It seems ambitious even for her.”

“Go and ask Errollyn,” Rhillian said. “He gave me the evidence. This is all his doing.”

Sasha stared at her. And blinked. “Errollyn?”

Rhillian was surprised. Sasha hadn’t known? “Yes, Errollyn. It’s good to see that at least one of you has some idea of the nature of your new friends.”

She stalked off, gesturing Lieutenant Raine to follow. Sasha stood in disbelief and watched them go.

Nine

S CHWEET, SPOKE YASMYN’S DARAK AGAINST A WHETSTONE. Schweet, in long strokes above the clatter of carriage wheels on pavings.

Sherdaine had walls. Sofy stared out the window of her carriage, and marvelled at the sight of them, sheer and gleaming grey in the bright, afternoon sunshine. It was said that in all the Bacosh wars, Sherdaine had only been sacked twice, and both of those a time long before the construction of these latest walls. The battlements stretched a long way, enclosing what was surely the largest city Sofy had ever seen.

The Army of Lenayin’s vanguard rode about and before the carriage, senior lords from each province moved to the head of the column. They clattered across a small bridge, and here across the fields before Sherdaine’s walls, Sofy could see an army encamped-white tents and drifting smoke, as far as the eye could see. Her heart nearly stopped, there were so many. The army of the united, “free Bacosh,” the provinces of Algrasse, Tournea, Larosa, Meraine and Rakani, all together under the banner of the Regent Arosh of Larosa.

Riding alongside, Damon rapped the carriage door with an armoured fist. “Get your head back in. It won’t do for the bride to ride into Sherdaine like a dog on a farmcart.”

Sofy ignored him, wishing she could have ridden at her father’s side in the vanguard. Koenyg had not even bothered to reply when she’d wistfully suggested it, he merely shook his head in disbelief and continued his conversation with someone else. Damon was now banished from the vanguard’s head, appointed by Koenyg to be his sister’s protector, since, Koenyg said acidly, he seemed so determined to kill any who offended her honour. Algrassian, and lately Larosan nobility, had shown a degree of respectful caution in their nightly feasts previously unseen, particularly toward Damon. Sofy thought their behaviour vastly improved since Lord Elen’s slaying, and Yasmyn agreed. And Damon, truth be told, did not appear to resent his new duty as Koenyg might have hoped.

Sofy could now see a huge entourage awaiting across the road ahead. Knights, armoured head to toe, rowed lances pointing skyward and flying the coloured profusion of feudal heraldry. They parted as the vanguard arrived, and joined in the column’s progress, flanking the road in great lines.

Damon kicked the carriage door. “Sofy, I mean it!”

She scowled at him and flung herself back on her seat. “They can’t see sideways out of those helmets,” she said, “I don’t know what he’s worried about.”

On the seat opposite, Jeleny and Rhyana, two of Sofy’s prettiest handmaidens, sat in their finest, hair done up in ringlets laced with gold cord. Both looked apprehensively at Yasmyn, who continued to hone the edge of her darak.

“Oh Yasmyn,” said Jeleny at last, “must you?”

“In Isfayen,” said Yasmyn, “a bridesmaid must never be without two things-a sharp blade and clean undergarments.”

“It does look very sharp already, Yasmyn,” Sofy observed. “Though I cannot speak for your undergarments.”

Yasmyn grinned, and sheathed the darak on the belt she wore beneath her blue waist sash. “We ride with many lobsters today,” she said, peering out the window at the knights. “I wonder do they cook, when the sun is hot?”

Sofy found herself thinking of Jaryd. She’d been trying not to, for most of the ride. Occasionally, it was true, she’d ridden past the midportion of Valhanan’s part in the column, hoping to catch a glimpse, while at the same time pretending that it was merely coincidence that she should happen to be riding there.

It had been a mistake. If she were a truly devout Verenthane, surely she would fear for her soul…yet that was just the talk of priests, whose words of late she’d trusted less and less. Serrin did not believe such things, nor did Nasi-Keth…nor, in fact, most of the Lenay countryside, where few lads or ladies indeed were virgins on their wedding days, and the villagers loved nothing more than a gossip of the latest lascivious tales. Only Verenthane princesses were held to such standards, and oh how she’d grown to distrust the reasons for that. It was not about religion, she was quite sure. Sasha had always told her as much- the priests and the lords, she’d said, would use such beliefs to serve the ends of power. The righteousness of the faith itself was always a secondary consideration in such matters.

Perhaps her brother Wylfred was right, Sofy thought. Perhaps she had been corrupted by Sasha’s influence over the years. Sofy knew there had been such hopes for her, the darling youngest princess, the apple of her father’s eye. But now her father was marrying her off to a strange man for the cause of a foreign war she had no interest in fighting. What she’d done with Jaryd, that half year before on the return road from Algery, had felt good. And it had been her mistake, if mistake it had been. Something of her very own, that no one could now take from her. Soon, there would be few enough of those.

But it bothered her, now, that she had not made more of an effort to see him. It would have been impossible, of course, with so many eyes upon them, but that did not stop her from fretting. Did he think of her? It was foolish to hope so, the number of women bedded by Jaryd Nyvar was more worthy of a serrin than a Verenthane noble. And he was most certainly not of a type with her, with a head full of swords and horses, and rarely a care for the passions of Sofy’s life-the arts, music, tongues and civil conversation. No, she thought-she was not bound for the hells, but it had been a mistake all the same. He was not for her, and was a landless no-name now, an impossible match for a princess. If the Larosans insisted on examining her virginity before marriage, well, she rode horses regularly and knew well enough (with more thanks to Sasha) that the activity rendered such examinations unreliable. A half year had passed, she was not with child, and none of it was any concern to her now-she was merely moping before her impending wedding, and wondering what might have been, at another time, in another life.

Yet still she thought of him, and remembered his smile.

Beyond the clustered horsemen of the vanguard, Sofy could see grand armies assembling to either side of the road. More feudal banners, rows and rows of horsemen, all the way to the gates of Sherdaine. Sofy could not tear her eyes away, a tightness growing in her throat. So many men. Such a powerful army. And all for her. The