greater honour in this contest.”
The observation did not surprise Sasha. For the Isfayen, even more than in most of Lenayin, victory in battle brought honour, and honour was currency far richer than gold. When King Soros had liberated Lenayin from the Cherrovan a century before, the Isfayen had taken more convincing than most. Many Isfayen blood chiefs had challenged the new king to arms, and fought bloody battles against chieftains who converted to the new faith, be they Isfayen or from neighbouring Yethulyn or Neysh. Many Isfayen had never considered themselves to be Lenay at all, and had taken the liberation as an opportunity to fight for a separate kingdom…or indeed, for rulership of the greater Lenay kingdom. Thankfully, that prospect had so horrified the rest of Lenayin that they had banded together to ensure it never happened, and the resisting Isfayen chieftains had been crushed. That crushing had gained King Soros the respect of the rest, and Isfayen had submitted to rule from Baen-Tar, after the limited, uniquely Lenay fashion.
Yet the Isfayen had remained remote from the rest of Lenayin, their lands high, rugged and cold, their manners hostile, their justice crude. Even the Isfayen practice of the new faith was unique, a strange crossbreed of old traditions and new civilisation, their temples adorned with colours and flags, their holy stars inscribed with the spirit script of their ancient ways. And yet it was the faith, Kessligh had assured Sasha, that had brought the Isfayen into the Lenay fold to their current extent…which was not to say that they were brothers in the grand Lenay family, but merely that they did not kill the king’s taxmen on principle, or raid the neighbouring villages without at least a warning, or seek marriage with the daughter of prominent lords by galloping into town and throwing the girl over a saddlehorn. With the Isfayen, that was considered progress. Many in the priesthood had taken on the role of educators in wild Isfayen, and had thus attained an importance far beyond the worship of gods. Such men had brought the outside world to Isfayen, and given its inhabitants a reason to care about what lay beyond for the first time in their history.
The Great Lord Faras, Sasha well knew, was considered the best and brightest leader that Isfayen had ever had. Faras’s father had insisted he receive a Baen-Tar education, and now, the breeding showed. Faras had in turn insisted that his son Markan, and daughter Yasmyn, attend Baen-Tar, to learn the ways of the
The hitch, of course, was that for it all to work, the army had to win.
Sasha stretched carefully as men dismounted. A galloping horse turned her head, knights moving to protect the dismounting princess regent as the new arrival came to a halt nearby. Jaryd Nyvar jumped from his horse and strode to Sasha, grinning ear to ear. He hugged her gently, having evidently heard to do that, and Sasha hugged him hard.
“The rabble have been giving you a hard time, huh?” Jaryd said affectionately.
“You’ve no idea,” said Sasha. She pulled back to look at him. “Is that a ring I see? Two rings?” She fingered the metal in his ear.
“What do you think?”
“I think your hair looks better longer.” Jaryd’s hair had grown long enough to have curls. “You’re nearly handsome now.”
Jaryd laughed. “No tattoos though. Not even for you, Sasha.”
“I’ve got one!” Sasha said brightly. “I got it in Petrodor, want to see?”
“Of course! I hope it’s somewhere exciting.”
“Just my arm, I’ll show you later. Still trying to get my clothes off, huh Jaryd?”
Jaryd put a hand to her face. “No offence, Sasha, but you look like you could use a good fuck.”
Sasha laughed outright, the first time she’d laughed since Tracato, and hugged him again. Spirits she was glad to see him. She hadn’t quite expected to be this glad. Seeing her siblings again was wonderful, but hard, too. She knew they did not blame her for Alythia’s death, but she felt responsible anyway. And Sofy was married, and Koenyg was on the warpath, and Damon was angry, and Myklas was…well, Myklas, and not someone with whom she could discuss anything important. Perhaps Jaryd had been the same once, but he’d changed. He knew loss and pain. He knew what it was to feel alone. And he was one of the few men in Rhodia who’d dare flirt with her so outrageously. She needed that.
“Well,” she said, “right now I’m covered in scabs and bruises.”
Jaryd made a face. “Some men are more easily deterred than others.”
“You mean some men will fuck anything.”
Jaryd grinned, and gave her a kiss on the forehead that was far more brotherly than his banter would suggest.
About them, a camp of sorts was unfolding, as men at the head of the Lenay column sought the sheltered places to lay their gear. Most made do with a simple patch of ground, and set about making camp. Given that the Army of Lenayin marched without tents and slept on the open ground, that was a relatively simple affair of dumping gear and making a fire. Soon the firewood carts would come clattering, their men having spent the day’s march foraging for wood. The bedding cart would follow, with extra blankets for the footsoldiers with no horses to carry such heavy, unwieldy things.
Sasha, Sofy, Jaryd and Yasmyn walked with Great Lord Faras and the Isfayen lords through the gathering commotion of camp toward the fishing village. Here at the vanguard, tents were being erected, for royalty and lords. Already boats were crossing the river from the walls of Nithele, loaded with produce, and men who shouted to the soldiers ashore of things for sale. Sasha saw chickens held aloft, and fish, and baskets of eggs. Soldiers and merchants alike clustered toward the river.
Sofy walked further from Sasha, and talked with Yasmyn and Great Lord Faras. Jaryd noticed.
“She’s not talking to you either?” he asked wryly.
“We’ve each been in very different places,” Sasha explained, flexing one shoulder. Her taka-dans were becoming more strenuous, and her underworked muscles were protesting. Then, in Torovan, which she knew the Isfayen spoke only a little, “Did you fuck her?” Jaryd scowled at her. “Damon told me. Don’t worry, I’m not about to take your head for it.” And she smiled. “She could use a good fuck too. Better you take her virginity than that Larosan ass.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Jaryd said shortly. Sasha watched him, with great curiosity. He wasn’t joking now.
“How was it like?”
“I’m not sure,” said Jaryd. “Perhaps you should ask her.”
“I love her dearly, Jaryd, but she is a breathless young girl at times. I’m sure you’ve made more difficult conquests…”
“I told you, it wasn’t like that.” Jaryd’s voice betrayed impatience now.
“I believe you. Do you love her?”
Jaryd sighed, and ran a hand through his lengthening hair. “Would it matter?”
“It would to you. And it would to her, I’m sure.”
“That’s the trouble,” said Jaryd. “Best drop it.”
He indicated ahead, to a gathering of flags by the village outskirts. Flags of the Larosan royalty, Sasha saw.
“Do they know?” Sasha asked.
“Probably. But rumour here is even worse than Baen-Tar. Sofy’s rumoured to have slept with half the army, so I’m lost in the crowd. Yasmyn’s been spreading the best rumours, she always rumours Sofy to be secretly in love with the best Lenay swordsmen, and makes it known to the Larosans that those swordsmen will demand an honour duel if accused. And the Larosans don’t know Lenayin well enough to know which rumours are possible, and which are horse shit.”
“I’m sure the priesthood isn’t amused,” said Sasha, as they skirted preparations for a large tent to be erected.
“The Larosan priesthood is amused by nothing,” Jaryd agreed. “It’s a curious thing. Bawdy lords and even some
