Sasha (17 page)

Some horsemen were approaching along the lakeside road ahead, the back way from Vassyl, moving for the gates. The tall, metal grille stood open, but was doubtless manned to slam shut at a moment's notice. In the gathering gloom, the horsemen looked to be Taneryn militia, long braids blowing in the wind. Behind them came several horse-drawn carts, laden with what Sasha guessed would be fresh food. So long as Halleryn held the back road around the lake, food supplies would stay fresh. So long as they kept the Hadryn on the other side of the stream, fresh water could be collected from the lake. But if Usyn decided to press forward in force, neither could be guaranteed.

“What's wrong?” she asked Kessligh then, into that solemn, wind-swept silence. The blood red sky was fading now, deepening to the colour of coals in a dying fire, once the most brilliant heat had paled.

“I remember this place,” Kessligh said heavily. “Thirty years ago. The walls had not held the Cherrovan then. We took it back after they'd held the place for a week. Inside the walls we found…” and he grimaced, unwilling to complete the sentence. He gazed away across the rumpled, darkening surface of the lake. Sasha stared at him for a moment. Kessligh rarely displayed such emotion recounting his time in the Great War. The spirits of this place must surely have been unsettled, for all the blood that had been spilt here.

She made the spirit sign again, unable to stop herself. This time, Kessligh did not appear to notice.

Halleryn's gate loomed ahead, alive with burning torches within the archway.

“Who approaches?” came a cry from the battlements, and they halted on the road.

“Prince Damon Lenayin!” a Royal Guardsman yelled up, with extra volume to be heard above the loud flapping of green and black Taneryn banners overhead. “Yuan Kessligh Cronenverdt! M'Lady Sashandra Lenayin! Master Jaryd Nyvar of Tyree!”

Along the walls to either side, many faces peered down, some leaning out for a better view. It was one of the more dramatic announcements any arrival could have declared. A formality, of course, as they'd been invited.

“The Great Lord Krayliss of Taneryn grants you welcome!” came the call down from the battlements. “Pass within and be at peace, for you are within the protection and hospitality of the Great Lord of Taneryn!”

They passed beneath the portcullis into Halleryn town itself. The main street ahead was lined with buildings of stone base with wooden walls and rooftops, as was the fashion of northern towns. A soldier of obvious Goeren-yai appearance arrived before them and beckoned them to follow. The road was cobbled, rare for a Lenay town, but then, stonework was the tradition in these parts. And there were drains, Sasha saw as they walked, leading to what she presumed were underground outflows. God forbid they led into the pristine lake. She couldn't imagine any Goeren-yai township allowing that. More likely a river inflow washed it someplace outside the walls to be buried or composted for farm use…another serrin innovation that the Goeren-yai had adopted many centuries ago.

The streets of Halleryn were mostly empty and unlit by any street lamp or torch. Sasha could not help but think the town dank and gloomy, with nary a tree to break the monotony of stone and cobbles. The central road sloped upward until it opened on a broad, paved courtyard busy with soldiers. New arrivals were dismounting and leading their horses to the stables on the right. Men gathered in the courtyard about makeshift ovens and the smell of cooking wafted in the air.

Attention turned as the royal party crossed the courtyard, some men coming to their feet, more from curiosity than respect. Here too, there was little warmth to greet a prince and, in several quarters, even some coarse laughter at a whispered joke. Then, halfway across, there came a new murmur sweeping through those watching…“Cronenverdt! Cronenverdt!”…and suddenly all men were standing and pressing forward to watch, openmouthed and incredulous.

Overlooking the courtyard was a tall keep of stone walls and overlooking arches. The keep's grand wooden doors were thrust aside by a pair of guards as the royal party approached, and they entered a stone hallway lined with old, faded tapestries and alive with the dancing flame of ensconced torches. Their guide led them up a broad stone staircase to the left, where they found themselves emerging from the floor of a great clansman's hall.

All was stone, but for the tall windows in the walls. Central pillars made rows to either side of the very long, central table, laid for serving. Light came from flaming torches mounted to the ceiling pillars, and a grand, carved chair dominated the table's far end. About the pillars, standing with swords at the hip and mugs in their hands, were numerous Goeren-yai warriors of Taneryn—long-haired, tattooed, beringed and proud. All paused in conversation now and turned to look as the Royal Guard extinguished their torches and parted to present their four charges.

Damon walked forward, surveying the array of hard faces that confronted him. Sasha remained at Kessligh's side…and realised that Damon, to the best of her knowledge, had never met Lord Krayliss and did not know what he looked like. She scanned the faces herself, searching.

“This is a meeting of war!” announced one man, tall and broad with long hair flowing, a strong moustache trimmed in two lines on either side of his mouth. His hard eyes were fixed upon Sasha with evident anger. “There has never been a woman present at a Goeren-yai council of war, and there never shall be!”

Sasha glared in return. Kessligh hooked a thumb into his belt and repressed a grimace that was somewhere between a wince and a sarcastic smile. “Looks like dinner to me,” he remarked.

“Yuan Kessligh,” growled the man. “You walk into this hall with more honour, and soaked in the blood of more enemies, than might any man in Lenayin. Do not tarnish that honour, sir, by betraying the honour of Taneryn and its chosen men.”

Kessligh strolled forward to Damon's side, and then a step beyond, gazing about at the gathering as he might typically consider a strange clutch of chickens—with thoughtful, off-handed curiosity. To Sasha, his manner and poise seemed nothing but familiar. And yet the armed and braided strongmen of Taneryn seemed to flinch backward—not in steps taken, but in posture, a slight lowering of the eyes here, a defensive folding of the arms there. Kessligh stood no taller than most, and somewhat slimmer than some, his unkempt hair streaked with grey, his person lacking any martial adornment save the blade at his back. And yet somehow, before warriors, nobles and a prince, he dominated the room.

“Your name, sir?” Kessligh asked the angered man, as calmly as ever.

“Yuan Cassyl Rathan of Dessyd village,” the man replied, with a proud lift of his chin.

“A first thing, Yuan Cassyl.” Meeting the man's gaze with a firm stare. “My honour is mine. Not yours. It is mine to do with as I wish. Your preferences mean nothing to me. Likewise your honour is yours. My actions have no bearing upon it. Only you can gain honour, Yuan Cassyl. Or lose it, by your deeds.”

There was a brief pause, to allow for a collective rumble of approval to follow, with some nodding of heads. For a great warrior to talk of such a thing as honour, before such a gathering, at such a time, was a serious matter indeed. At such times, men of great import listened hard.

“A second thing—you claim that your honour depends upon adherence to certain ancient traditions. I don't care.” An utter hush had filled the hall, broken only by the faint, rippling sound of flaming torches above. “I cannot afford to care. I am Nasi-Keth. Your ways are not my ways. I respect them nonetheless. Thirty years ago, the men of this place swore a similar, undying respect to me and my ways, however strange they found them. My ways include an uma—a student, if you will—who remains by my side to learn as best I can teach. I would never require you to change your ways, Yuan Cassyl of Dessyd village, were you to enter my house and my hospitality. It would be dishonourable of me. And yet now, you ask me to be like you—Goeren-yai, which I am not.”

“A rider came today from Perys,” came a new voice, deep and powerful. “He witnessed the great deeds there of our guests and the warriors of Tyree, against the bloody-handed Hadryn. He also claimed that the uma of Yuan Kessligh was there possessed by the Synnich, and in such a state slew nine Hadryn warriors by her own hand and tasted their blood.”

There was a flurry of spirit signs across the hall and a murmuring of oaths. Then the speaker emerged from behind a stone pillar. He bore a thick, wild mane of dark hair and a vast, bushy black beard. Grim, dark eyes peered from a profusion of strong yet intricate tattoos that masked the left side of his face. A long, single tri-braid fell clear from the rest, to lie upon the right of his jaw. He walked slowly forward in heavy boots and a leather vest beneath a cloak of green and black Taneryn colours. Lord Krayliss of Taneryn, the sole Goeren-yai great lord of Lenayin.

“The spirit men all agree there have been omens,” Krayliss continued, his eyes still fixed on Kessligh. The sword that swung from his hip was a monster, although to judge from the breadth of the man's shoulders, Sasha reckoned it might be about the correct size for him. “The sky tonight was red, foretelling of much blood to be shed…or of the coming of a great power. Perhaps that is you, Yuan Kessligh? Or your uma?”

“I am not a man to judge such things, Lord Krayliss,” Kessligh replied, shrewdly. “If you wish a recounting, best that you ask her yourself.”

Krayliss stopped at the forefront of his gathering, assorted village headmen and respected warriors from across Taneryn. Followers of Krayliss, at least. Not all the men of Taneryn could be described as such. But some, facing Hadryn aggression, might rally to his side nonetheless.

“Yuan Cassyl makes a fair observation,” he rumbled, meaty thumbs tucked into his broad leather belt. “Women are not welcome at Goeren-yai councils of war. It is not our way.”

“If my ways are not welcome here,” said Kessligh, “then I shall leave. Do you revoke your previous invitation?” Their stares locked. A contest of wills, the stubborn versus the disciplined. The blunt instrument versus the sharp. A lord never revoked an invitation. Kessligh had drawn the line, somewhat closer to Lord Krayliss's toes than most men would dare.

“Girl!” Krayliss barked then, with a wry twist of his lips. “Come forward! Step where we can see you!”

Sasha cast her cloak away from her left shoulder, exposing the hilt of her sword, and moved quietly to Kessligh's side. It was an effort not to meet Krayliss's eyes, but she kept her gaze demurely on his broad chest, as a good Goeren-yai maiden should among such mighty warriors. Surrounding her, some men stared in displeasure. Others with intent curiosity. And some with mouths smirking in imitation of their lord, as if thinking the matter some huge jest.

“So…” rumbled Krayliss, raking her from head to toe with his gaze. “The girl who was once a princess. Some men still call you that, do they not?”

“The men of Lenayin shall do as they will, my Lord,” Sasha replied, provoking some laughter at that truism. “It is no longer my title, I ceased to be princess when I left Baen-Tar.”

“The bonds of blood are deeper than mere titles, girl,” said Krayliss. Some of the smirking ceased at that utterance. The lord's eyes bore deeper. Sasha's instinct was to meet challenge with challenge. The effort to keep her eyes lowered was enough to bring sweat to her brow. “These tales from Perys. The rider who gave them was young and with little hair between his legs…much like our Master Jaryd here.”

A roar of laughter from the gathered men. Sasha repressed a retort with difficulty. Sometimes, in her love of the Goeren-yai, she forgot why she disliked Lord Krayliss so greatly. Now she remembered.

“I did not slay nine men,” she said tightly.

“Ha,” said one village headman, contemptuously, “as I said. Just as I said.”

“I slew four.”

Deathly silence across the hall. “You witnessed this deed?” Krayliss asked Kessligh.

“Not I,” said Kessligh. “I saw the bodies in the aftermath.”

“I saw it!” called Jaryd to the group, proudly. “I was not ten paces from the last when he fell! All four fell so fast and so close that I had barely yelled warning of the first, when the last had fallen upon his corpse! It was a masterful display and I pity those who were not there to see it! Even as Verenthane, I swear I could see the mark of your spirits in the strokes of her blade!”

Sasha swore beneath her breath, through clenched teeth. Stupid, ignorant, macho young fool. Oh how she was going to kick his backside when they were outside once more…

“You make great claims, young Master,” growled Krayliss, with considerable displeasure. “What does a Verenthane know of such things? On what authority does a follower of the lowlands order claim knowledge of the ancient spirits?”

“I was there, my Lord,” Jaryd retorted with all too little fear. Did he know who he faced? Challenging Lord Krayliss within his own hall was not the same as defeating wooden swords at tournaments. In these parts, men fought to kill, not for games. “I have eyes. I tell you only what I saw.”

“Even if true, it proves nothing!” retorted another man, from the far side of the long table. “The spirits are not guides for women! They never have been!”

“Spirits alone were never mentioned,” said another, low and soft, as if fearing the presence of unspoken, unseen power. “Only the Synnich was mentioned.”

There was about the room another flurry of spirit signs and the muttering of oaths. In some faces now, there was real fear. Krayliss surveyed the commotion with a dark, furrowed stare.

“I don't believe her!” pronounced another. “The men of Hadryn are bastards, yet their swordsmanship is unquestioned! Perhaps only the smallest handful of men could defeat so many! No woman has such skill with a blade to take four in the manner described! Only a woman of Saalshen could manage such a feat, and a great one at that!”

“Exactly!” retorted another. “A serrin woman could manage such a feat because the serrin walk with the spirits!”

An uproar followed, men shouting argument and counterargument at close, heated range. In several quarters, pushing broke out, quickly separated by cooler heads before it could escalate. To Sasha's left, Damon was staring about in disbelief. To her right, Kessligh simply folded his arms and waited, as many times he had waited for a much younger Sashandra Lenayin to cease her raging tempers before insisting just as firmly upon the very thing that had caused them. Sasha simply watched Lord Krayliss, unafraid now of meeting his gaze. Krayliss stared back, unmoved within the commotion.