ladies at the feasts and weddings, and some behaviour that would even make a Lenay blush. The priests don’t bother with that. They’re concerned about the serrin, and purity. You’d be in far greater danger with your bed partners, by the sound of it.”
Evidently he wanted to hear more of Errollyn, having heard the rumours. It was only fair, as she’d grilled him on his affair with Sofy. But she could not speak of Errollyn, and had to gaze toward the river to hold her composure. Jaryd saw her pain, and put a hand on her shoulder.
“He must be an impressive man,” he said quietly. “To have won the heart of Sashandra Lenayin.”
“The most impressive.”
It was Prince Balthaar Arosh himself who greeted them at the outskirts of the village. He made a great show of noble courtesy, shaking the hands of the Isfayen lords, complimenting them on their warrior reputation, and then kissing Sasha’s hand. He was not slimy like some lowlands nobility, Sasha conceded reluctantly. Tall and handsome, yes, with thick brows and a composed demeanour. Educated, with a straight bearing and an effortless grasp of comportment and manners. And he called her “sister,” and walked with her through the outskirts of the fishing village, as though he had arrived here with the intention of doing precisely that.
“Tell me,” he said in nicely accented Torovan, “how do the Isfayen regard you? I had heard that you’d had a confrontation with the Great Lord Faras before.” In the Udalyn Valley, when Faras had ridden with King Torvaal to help put an end to Sasha’s little rebellion. Balthaar had done some research.
“Great Lord Faras is loyal to his king,” said Sasha. “He viewed my actions as disloyal, and thought ill of me. But his daughter Yasmyn has been riding with my sister, and Prince Damon informed me that the Isfayen opinion of me had been improving. The Isfayen respect warriors.”
Sasha made certain to walk between the prince regent and Jaryd. Balthaar did not look at the younger man, but that might have been the simple arrogance of royalty. Sasha wondered.
The village houses were of squat stone walls and thatched roofs, wealthier than most Larosan villages, yet still unattractive to Sasha’s eye. A woman walking toward them with a laden basket and two children in tow fell to one knee in horror as she realised who approached. The prince’s knights swaggered past her, hands on sword belts, regarding her as a big dog might regard a small one grovelling at its paws. Sasha’s mood, recently brightened, darkened once more.
“I do confess to being somewhat astonished,” Prince Balthaar continued, “that such formidably masculine peoples as the Lenays should accept a woman with a sword into their midst on the road to war.”
“The warriors of Lenayin respect skill with a sword,” Sasha replied. She extended a hand to ruffle the hair of the kneeling woman’s little boy in passing, but the woman drew him fearfully back from the nobility’s path. The little boy stared, his face dirty, fingers in his mouth. “There is a saying in Valhanan, that should the mouse best the wolf, then give the mouse a chieftain’s staff and let him rule in the land of wolves.”
“It is not common though, surely, for the mouse to best the wolf?”
“Not common, no,” said Sasha. “But should it occur, then should the wolves not show respect?”
“There is a tale of mice chasing cats in the Bacosh,” said Balthaar. His manner was so languid and airy, it was difficult to tell what, if anything, he was truly thinking. “Not the same thing, but close enough, for the purposes of tales. This occurred following the murder of a king by a commoner. The natural order was upset, and the mice chased the cats, and the cats chased the dogs, and the women beat the men.”
“Is it then an established order of the Bacosh that the men should beat the women?” Sasha asked coolly.
“Not the
“I have heard so,” said Sasha. Jaryd, Sasha knew, spoke reasonable Torovan. She did not look at him, and he remained silent.
“Perhaps it would be wise of you, sister, to not wear your blade so prominently upon your back,” Balthaar said then. “I fear that there are some in these lands who might take it ill.”
“Where then should I wear it?”
“A hip would suffice,” said Balthaar, with certainty.
“I do not like the scabbard to bang against my leg,” said Sasha, nervelessly. “I have never seen a swordbelt that well fits a woman’s hips. And I have always drawn over the shoulder. One does not toy with ingrained reflexes.”
“I fear you miss my point,” said Balthaar. “To wear a blade as such is to announce one’s self Nasi-Keth. For centuries in these lands, the Nasi-Keth have been put to the sword.”
“I am Nasi-Keth,” said Sasha. “And if any would like to put me to the sword, they’ll find that mine is sharper.”
“M’Lady,” said Balthaar, with the first trace of temper, “you are a guest in these lands.”
“I’m not,” said Sasha. “I’m an ally, and family to you by marriage. A guest is one who requires hospitality. Lenayin requires nothing from you, Prince Balthaar. You require
To Sasha’s surprise, Balthaar raised his eyebrows and fought back a smile. “The tales I hear of you are true. You will not bow to anyone.”
“You’ll find it a common trait amongst Lenays,” Sasha said.
Balthaar laughed. “That must be why you’re always fighting and killing each other.”
“Not nearly so much as here,” Sasha replied. Balthaar’s amusement faded. “Furthermore, Your Highness, if we fight and kill those who attempt to make us bow on this ride, it will not be other Lenays who do the dying. One should not invite the Army of Lenayin into one’s lands if one does not understand that.”
In the centre of the village there was a small temple in a courtyard. About it crowded many lords of Lenayin and the Bacosh. They milled in small discrete groups, and conversed as though waiting for something. Men saw Balthaar at the head of his party and bowed at his approach. Before the temple’s steps, men in odd robes had gathered. Sasha left Balthaar’s side to step through the throng of armed and armoured men, to catch a closer look.
From the edge of the crowd she could see the gathered formation, of men in black robes emblazoned with green, Verenthane stars. The men wore tall and pointed hoods, their faces covered with holes cut for the eyes. Several carried tall Verenthane stars on poles. To their side, prominent among the surrounding men, stood King Torvaal Lenayin, and Regent Arosh, side by side. All were waiting, and men stood clear of the path before them. Someone, or something, was coming.
Jaryd and Yasmyn pushed in at Sasha’s sides. “Looks like the oddest wedding I’ve ever seen,” Jaryd joked.
“They do more than marry people in the temples around here,” Yasmyn said grimly. Sasha looked about, and found that they were alone amongst Bacosh lords and knights, many of whom gave them long looks. A moment later she saw Sofy, standing with Balthaar, her hand in his as he guided her behind the line of hooded men to stand by his father’s side.
“Who are these idiots?” Sasha asked, confident that none immediately surrounding would be able to understand Lenay.
“The
“Original,” Sasha said. She did not like the look of them. She had not heard of the Black Order, but she knew of the extremes to which some in the Bacosh took their beliefs. Any group so assembled, in uniform costume, beneath Verenthane symbols, would arouse her wariness. “Who are they?”
“Men,” said Yasmyn. “All sorts of men. High men, low men, city men and country men. No peasants, but all other sorts of men. The priesthood selects them, but they do not say who they are. They are the silent arm of the priesthood.”
Sasha thought she understood. “Informants.”
“Yes. They tell the priests of blasphemy, witchcraft, all those things. Much better for the priests if no one knows who they are. So they wear hoods.”
“Sofy says Lenayin has too many stupid old traditions,” Jaryd muttered. “I’m quite certain I prefer our stupid old traditions to these.”
“Not an old tradition,” said Yasmyn, shaking her head. “Less than fifty years old.”
“About the time the priesthood became impatient with the lords’ failure to reclaim the Saalshen Bacosh, and set about turning it into a holy crusade,” Sasha surmised.
“Yes. Here, faith is politics.” Yasmyn sounded disgusted. “The priests make new beliefs, to suit their king. The
