Tracato

“They’ll move every cavalryman they have to defend that side,” Sasha warned. “With all these talmaad around, that’ll be a lot.”

“Yes, but light cavalry,” Damon countered. “It’s made for attacking, not defending.” He considered the squiggles in the dirt. “This would be cunning of them, but it gives us many options. They’d have to be desperate to try it.”

“We have them bottled up otherwise,” said Sasha. “And if the Larosans are not flanked, Rhodaan may well fall. If Rhodaan falls, Enora loses its defensive line, and will have to fight invasion from Rhodaan, not from Larosa, which is far easier.”

“Or from Saalshen,” Damon added, “if the Larosans cross the Ipshaal.” Sasha nodded, and looked up at footsteps on the verandah.

“What are you two muttering about that’s so important you’d wake me up?” Koenyg asked grumpily.

“Sasha has an idea.”

“Oh aye,” said Koenyg sarcastically, jumping down to look at their scribblings, “this should be good.”

He wasn’t so sarcastic after she’d explained it, though. He knelt, looking at the squiggles for a long time. And looked up, staring into the dark, as though wishing he had serrin vision with which to probe the night.

“You’re probably wrong on the details,” he said finally, “but you’re right about the intent. If I were them, I’d move soon. Immediately, even. The longer they wait, the worse their overall position.”

He got up and strode to a guardsman. The man listened to the instructions, and hurried off. Soon, some cavalry scouts arrived, wild Taneryn men, newly woken. Koenyg instructed more scouting sweeps, in addition to the many he’d already assigned. Those men strode off. More lanterns were lit about the farmhouse, and nearby camps stirred.

The king appeared in the doorway, a black sentinel in a robe. “Trouble?” he asked Koenyg.

“Perhaps. Sasha fears they may be moving. I think she may be right.” Torvaal looked at Sasha, long and hard. Sasha ignored him, leaning on a verandah post and waiting.

Yasmyn emerged from the doorway, wrapped in a cloak. Her face, swollen when she had left Sofy’s service eight days ago, was now somewhat recovered, though her right eye remained partly closed. Her hair, previously long and loose, had been covered by a red scarf, patterned with ancient black markings. There were new scars on her cheek, that Balthaar’s men had not inflicted. It was the arganyar, in Isfayen Telochi. In Lenay it translated as “the impatience.” The red of the headscarf was for blood. The cuts on Yasmyn’s cheeks were for intent. And the two gold rings in her left ear were for two heads, delivered to her father, in apology for the dishonour brought upon the family.

Lord Faras would have preferred an honourable combat, but the daughters of Isfayen were no warriors to deliver such honour. Instead, he spoke of marysan ne tanar, in Telochi, “the honour of women,” which in Isfayen was a different thing entirely. It was said in Isfayen that by the marysan ne tanar, women were far more dangerous to offend than men. A man would at least declare his intention to kill you before he did so, and present you with the opportunity to defend yourself on equal terms. A woman, with honour as pricklish as any man, yet without the option of honourable combat, would achieve her ends however she could. Poison was not unknown, nor seduction followed by a knife in the bed. Yasmyn had been proudly direct, as befitted a daughter of nobility, and ambushed with a blade in the night. It was not by accident that Isfayen women had by tradition the greatest authority of any women in Lenayin. It was a respect built on fear.

Yasmyn came now to Sasha’s side. “They move their army by night, yes?”

“Perhaps. We’ll see.”

“I would ride with you.”

“You’re not trained,” said Sasha. Yasmyn and Sasha had ridden together, these past eight days, at the head of the Isfayen column. Sasha had been impressed with Yasmyn’s strength, given her ordeal. Revenge helped, Sasha knew well. It suited Yasmyn’s character, and the Isfayen character in particular.

“I am a good rider,” Yasmyn said stubbornly. “You have admitted yourself that you are not the equal of most men in cavalry warfare.”

“Not an equal in offence,” Sasha corrected. “But I’m very good at defence. I know how to evade, how to predict, and I know my strengths and limitations. I also have skills of command and tactics, so I have some other uses, even should I not kill many enemies with my sword.”

Yasmyn folded her arms, wrapped in her cloak. “I never asked to play lagand,” she murmured, gazing into the night. “It is strange. I should have asked, so that I could gain skills like you.”

“Why?” Sasha asked. “It does little good for a noble daughter to fight in wars. Her purpose is to produce heirs.”

Yasmyn frowned at her. “You would say such a thing?”

“That is why I am no longer a noble daughter.” Her father stood nearby, doubtless hearing every word. “I have little interest in raising heirs.”

“I think a noble daughter of Isfayen should be permitted to fight, should she choose,” Yasmyn said stubbornly. “If she has the skills.”

“And if all Isfayen noble daughters fight? To be slain before birthing an heir, or depriving her family of the bonds of marriage that bind clans together? If you died on this field, Isfayen could fall apart for the lack of such bonds, and your family ended.”

“And also should the men die.”

“But you being safe is their guarantee,” said Sasha. “You cannot escape it, Yasmyn. I agree that women are capable of more than our tradition allows. But for as long as families rule, and the line of succession is all important, women shall always be shielded from such risk.”

Yasmyn thought about it for a moment. More men gathered by the edge of the torchlight, clustered about Koenyg. Damon joined them, but the king remained on the verandah, waiting. Was he truly listening, Sasha wondered? Could he ever admit to listening, and understanding what she was?

“Serrin women fight,” Yasmyn said then, thoughtfully.

Sasha nodded. “Succession means nothing to serrin. Family means much to them as individuals, but little as a society. Serrin like to say they are all of one family. It frees women to do as they choose.”

“Serrin are not human,” Yasmyn objected. “We should not imitate them and expect good results any more than we should live in packs like wolves.”

“Aye,” Sasha agreed. “Serrin share emotion and thought as humans never shall. It binds them together as humans can never bind. For us to live as serrin do would be to build a great stone house with no mortar, and expect it to stand. But we can think upon our limitations. And we can wonder at what we may learn from their study, not so much of them, but of ourselves.”

“I should like to be Nasi-Keth myself,” Yasmyn declared. “Perhaps not to fight in wars, though to wield a blade as you do would be glorious. But I would like to think on these things, for the benefit of my people. Perhaps that can be the role of an Isfayen noble daughter. If we cannot fight in wars, then surely we can learn and teach those things that may frighten or offend our lessers.”

Sasha gazed at her, in mild surprise. “I think that is a fine idea. Tradition is important, but it is the foundation of the house, not the house itself. For that, we must learn to build, and not be scared of building.”

“Would you be my uman?” Yasmyn asked.

“I’m still uma myself.”

“After,” said Yasmyn. “I would be honoured. I have only sixteen summers, I am not too old.”

“I’d thought you older. But no age is too old. I’m flattered you’d ask, but it is too early to think on such things. Chances are good I will not live out the day that dawns.”

“As I will not likely survive my arganyar. Balthaar’s cousin Elias still lives, and I cannot kill him yet for the damage it would cause our alliance, and the risk it would cause to Sofy. But eventually, he will die. In the meantime, I shall dream great dreams, and sharpen my darak.”

A horse approached, cantering along a line of campfires left clear precisely to guide horses to the farmhouse. The rider dismounted and Sasha recognised Jurellyn, her friend from that first ride to Ymoth, and one of the finest scouts in Lenayin.

“Y’Highness,” he announced to Koenyg and Torvaal, “we’re fucked.” He looked exhausted, and had never been a man for formalities. “I’m pulling our scouts back, I’ve sent word out for them all to head home to camp.”