Tracato

king lets them, as it suits his interest. They make a travesty of the gods, and priests and king rule the land together, two hands about the peoples’ throat.”

“He’s not a king, he’s a regent,” said Jaryd.

“Bah,” said Yasmyn. “A king is a king. He only says ‘regent’ to make it impossible for anyone to disagree that he should attack the Saalshen Bacosh. That’s new too. The last regent, Elrude, started that by saying no one could call themselves ‘king’ until the Saalshen Bacosh was reclaimed. They call it ‘Elrude’s Oath.’ His son was killed in battle against serrin scouts, and he vowed no one could call themselves king until all serrin were driven from the Bacosh. Until then it was just more squabbling Bacosh kings, even with the Saalshen Bacosh in serrin hands.”

Sasha looked at the Isfayen girl’s grim expression. “You know a lot.”

“Princess Sofy, she knows language better than me, she learns a people’s ways, and listens to the music of their soul. I leave that to her. My father taught me blood, knives and politics. I try to keep her alive.”

“And do so with my thanks,” said Sasha.

“Thank me or not, it is my duty. My father told me a woman could defend her best, because a woman can go places and ask things a man cannot. Prince Damon agreed.”

“Damon’s quite smart,” Sasha agreed. “For a man.”

“Hey,” said Jaryd.

“You have studied under Kessligh Cronenverdt,” said Yasmyn, her dark, slanted eyes on Sasha.

“And?”

“He is the greatest man of Lenayin. I would share his bed and bear his child, should he ask.”

“You’re not the first to offer.”

“I would share your bed, should you ask.”

Sasha blinked. “I don’t lean that way.”

Yasmyn smiled broadly. “Me neither. But even so.”

Hooves clattered nearby, and trumpets rang out. Sasha winced. She was beginning to dislike trumpets. They seemed indicative of everything brash, loud and arrogant that she disliked in the lowlands. Doubtless the Lenay lords would love them, and take them back to Lenayin to deafen guests at hall feasts.

Horsemen entered the courtyard, and rode in formation through the crowd. These were Torovan, Sasha saw, their steel helms pointed, their coats and sleeves longer than the Bacosh preference for vests. A mass of bannermen led the way, proclaiming house crests, and holding eight-pointed stars aloft. Sasha recognised the crest of House Steiner.

“The Torovan column must be catching up,” said Jaryd, studying the riders. “Torovan cavalry ride well, I hear.”

“Fine horses,” Sasha agreed. “Many Lenay-bred. I might have raised one of these myself.”

And here rode Symon Steiner, the king’s heir. Prince Steiner. His horse was white, and he rode poorly, a slim man of no great stature in a great, golden cloak and a golden crown on his head. Good spirits, Sasha thought. Big, fat old Patachi Steiner bought his little boy a crown. How positively preposterous.

“I might be ill,” she remarked as Prince Symon rode by, flanked by guards. The Bacosh lords raised a cheer.

“He is your brother, yes?” Yasmyn asked.

“No,” Sasha said coldly. “Just another fucking in-law. I’ve killed his men and I’d do the same to him in a heartbeat. After Steiner became king, they sent assassins to Dockside to kill the remaining disloyal priests, and then they started after lower-slope families they thought had been too close to the Dockside. We had to kill upper slope Patachis and their sons until they stopped. Pity we never got close enough to get him.”

“Sometimes I wonder if there are any truly honourable men in Rhodia save the Lenays,” said Jaryd.

“Yes,” Sasha said quietly. “There’s the serrin.”

Behind Symon and his entourage, there rode a priest. Sasha frowned, having never seen a priest on horseback before. She did not recognise this one, except that he wore black robes, and a stern haircut, and was doubtless one of Steiner’s cronies. She knew what was coming now, and why all the leaders of the various allied armies had been gathered here in the village outside of Nithele.

The priest got off his horse to stand beside Symon Steiner, before the assembled ranks of the Black Order. The Black Order parted, and escorted the men to the steps of the temple. They climbed, and there waited another man in black robes, enormously fat and entirely bald.

“Archbishop Turen,” said Jaryd. “The Archbishop of Larosa and the ‘free Bacosh.’ I had to negotiate with him to get as much Lenay tradition into the wedding as we did. He’s a stupid fat shit.”

“You think they’re all stupid fat shits,” Yasmyn replied.

“Which is why it was such a good idea to let me do the negotiations,” Jaryd said. “I gave them nothing. Besides, they all are stupid fat shits. In Lenayin I knew many good priests. Here, I think the good men are disqualified.”

“I knew good priests in Petrodor too,” Sasha muttered. “Stupid fat shits tried to kill them all.”

The Torovan priest withdrew a bundle from his robes, and unwrapped it, with careful ceremony. When the package lay exposed, Archbishop Turen blessed it, and sprinkled holy water on it. Sasha sensed the men about holding their breaths, eyes transfixed in silent reverence. For herself, she felt dread. She knew this object. In Petrodor, it had caused her, and people she loved, much grief.

The archbishop carefully took the object’s chain, and raised a golden medallion the size of his palm. It glistened with jewels. Then he turned to the crowd and announced something in Larosan. Sasha heard the word “Shereldin.” This was the Shereldin Star, holiest of holy Verenthane objects. The stars were forged upon the commission of something sacred to the priesthood, whether the elevation of common priests to higher status, or the founding of a new temple. This was forged on the founding of the Enoran High Temple. Two centuries ago, the serrin had come, and the star had been “saved,” eventually to find its way to Petrodor, recently the centre of the Verenthane world. There, it had become the symbol of the priesthood’s desire to reunify the Verenthane lands, and the rallying flag for the armies assembled for the task.

The archbishop raised the star with a final pronouncement, and all across the courtyard, men dropped to one knee and bowed their heads. Sasha remained standing. So did Jaryd. Yasmyn half-dropped, then paused in confusion. Sasha put a hand on her head and pushed her down properly. She could not see anyone else standing, across the entire courtyard, which meant that Yasmyn’s father Lord Faras had knelt. Best that his daughter did not cause him trouble.

The archbishop did not notice the two still standing, and resumed his speech, but the priest at his elbow noticed, and put a hand on his arm. He pointed, straight at Sasha and Jaryd.

“How many do you think we could take?” Jaryd wondered aloud, eyeing the faces that were now turning their way.

“Hundreds,” said Sasha. Jaryd smiled, and flexed his sword hand.

The archbishop stopped speaking. There was confusion, some in the crowd looking about, instructions, pointing and hand waving among the Black Order. Then several men in black hoods came running along the cleared path the horses had taken. Sasha did not feel any alarm. She knew where she stood. The prospect of killing these men did not particularly trouble her…if they asked her to kneel.

Four of the black-robed and hooded men stopped before Sasha and Jaryd, and threw their robes back to reveal swords at their belts. Sasha smiled. She did not think the Black Order would be the best of the Bacosh’s warriors, and those were no match for Lenay swordsmen like Jaryd. She herself was better again. Perhaps these fools required a demonstration of the fact.

Yasmyn stood up. Sasha frowned at her, but Yasmyn ignored her, and put a hand to her darak. Perhaps twenty paces away, Great Lord Faras of Isfayen also emerged from the sea of kneeling bodies, giving his daughter a long, displeased look. About him, the rest of the Isfayen contingent stood in solidarity with their lord. Several more Lenays followed. Then some more, like new shoots sprouting from a fertile soil. A priest came striding to them and stood before Sasha and Jaryd.

“Kneel!” he said in Torovan. “Kneel at once!”

“No,” said Sasha.

“We ride to war on a holy crusade!” snarled the priest. “If you will not kneel for this, what then do you fight for?”