"I agree," said Kessligh. Sasha turned her head against the wooden barn wall and gazed at the dark outline of his face. "I blame myself, in part. But the way of the uman is not the way of a parent. I cannot dictate your path to you, I can only help you to find your own.
"And I have seen this coming for a long time. I've warned you, haven't I?" Glancing across at her, a faint motion in the dark. "I warned you of consequences should you continue your attraction to the Goeren-yai so openly. I told you the offence it would cause, here in the north in particular. But perhaps, like so many things, it was meant to be."
Sasha frowned. "That doesn't sound like serrin philosophy. That sounds fatalistic."
Kessligh shrugged. "I am human, after all. But then it is serrin philosophy, too. Life is a battle, Sasha. All existence is in conflict. We fight the elements, we fight our consciences, we fight the limitations and eventual mortality of our bodies. All things happen by conflict, of one sort or another. The serrin have long recognised this fact. Once, long ago, they fought amongst themselves as we did. But then, having accepted the inescapable reality of conflict, they set themselves toward finding ways of living with it and negating its worst consequences."
He sighed, softly, and resettled his shoulders against the hard barn wall, seeking better posture. "It was always going to be trouble, Sasha. Choosing you for my uma." Sasha's eyes strained to make out his expression. "I knew it then, and I know it now. But I could make no other choice. I knew the choice would cause conflict, but sometimes, a forest fire brings new life, and from bloodshed can spring renewal. Such matters are not always ours to decide."
"Renewal," Sasha murmured. "That's a Goeren-yai philosophy."
"Warlike cultures always believe in renewal," Kessligh replied. "They have to." And then, before she could respond… "Sasha, I'm not happy that you chose a fight. I sympathise with your reasons, but you are far too important to be risking yourself in such a way. Important to your role as uma, and important to me personally.
"However, what's done is done. And I know you, Sasha. You cannot sleep because you feel compassion. Even for a thug like Farys Varan, you feel compassion because you know your skills utterly outclass his. I know because I've faced the same. When your opponent has so little chance, it feels like murder, and then you must face your conscience."
He reached from beneath his blanket and clasped her shoulder with one firm, sword-hardened hand. "Feel no pity for him, Sasha. Only you can cause your defeat tomorrow morning. As skilled as you are, any hesitation, any indecision against a man of his talents will surely cost your life. As long as you remain hathaal, he cannot touch you. But hathaal requires total concentration and technical perfection. In that way, he actually has more leeway for error than you. He fights with strength and strength is always strong, even when imperfectly applied. For svaalverd, strength comes from the application itself. Should the application fail, you shall lose not only technique, but strength as well."
"I know," Sasha murmured. "I know that. The edge is fine, even against my opponents in the Baerlyn training hall. At my best, even the best of them is no chance against me. When I fight distracted, or without full concentration, I come home black and blue. But…" and she took a deep, shuddering lungful of cold air, "… you know my moods. I cannot sustain one emotion for any long period. And now, as much as I hated Farys at the time, and still hate him now… it is difficult to sustain. That's all."
"You hold the Hadryn responsible for Krystoff's death," Kessligh reminded her.
Sasha nodded. "I do," she murmured. "But it was not by their own hands. It was not by Farys's hand." A flash of memory… a priest at the door to the tuition room. Musical lessons-the piccolo pipe, no less. A grave, sombre man, kneeling at Sasha's side. Dawning trepidation and terror. "They misinformed him as to the size of the Cherrovan raiding party. They knew he would charge in and be defeated by superior numbers. Once, I thought I could kill every man in Hadryn for that treachery. But now…" She broke off, unable to finish the sentence. A lump grew in her throat. For a moment, there was only the silence of the vast, cold night.
"Perhaps I don't love him enough," Sasha whispered. The piccolo pipe, falling to the floor. Breaking. "He was my only true friend. He had faith in me when no one else would. I dreamed of duelling with Hadryn men for vengeance for many years. I should not be having these doubts. If I'd truly loved Krystoff, I'd kill Farys and dance on his corpse."
"Dreaming is easy," said Kessligh. "Killing is hard."
"It shouldn't be," Sasha said. "Not if you believe in the cause." She gazed at her uman, her eyes hurting. "How did you do it? You've killed so many. How do you do it, and not doubt?"
"I always doubt," Kessligh replied, with as close as Sasha had ever heard him come to a gentle tone. "When you cease to doubt, you are lost. But the world is as it is, Sasha. One cannot find peace without accepting that. People die and people kill, and even if we are all flawed people, we cannot achieve anything good if we allow our enemies to defeat us. We must survive, Sasha. You must survive. Now, by your own choice, you must kill to survive. And you shall."
Sasha gazed at the mist upon the lake as she walked behind her honour guard, six men of the Falcon Guards who had volunteered for the duty. The eastern hills formed a dark, rugged line against the pale sky. High above, sunlight caught distant wisps of cloud and turned them brilliant yellow against the blue. The grass beneath her boots was damp, a not-quite frost that lay across the valley plain and gave the huddled white sheep something to drink with their morning feed.
Her honour guard were leading her toward the bridge where the tachadar circle had been formed upon the Halleryn side of the river. The town walls rose close and the gathering by the stream was well within arrowshot, yet all present were safe from Taneryn archers. No Goeren-yai archer would ever disrupt the solemnity of such proceedings. Along the walls, Sasha could see the dark shapes of many men gathered anywhere they could find a vantage. The Hadryn, it was plain, expected the Goeren-yai princess to die this morning. And they wanted the Taneryn to see it happen, first-hand and personal.
She followed her honour guard across the bridge and up the grassy bank toward the gathering ahead. The men of her honour guard were all in the full armour and colours of the Falcon Guard, save for their helms. Long, braided hair hung free on the shoulders of the three Goeren-yai, who marched with the slow, arrogant swagger of Goeren-yai manhood, a hand clasped to the hilt of each sword and threat in every step. The three Verenthane soldiers walked in a line behind their comrades, with no less intimidating a posture for all their lack of swagger. Three of each, Goeren-yai and Verenthane together. It was a clear and defiant symbol. No doubt the Hadryn, and the Taneryn onlookers from the walls, would notice.
Behind, at a suitable distance, followed Damon, Kessligh, Jaryd, Lieutenant Reynan and the six Royal Guardsmen. Captain Tyrun had remained behind with his troops, as at least one senior officer was required to do. It was unclear why Lieutenant Reynan had come, except that his family connection to Lord Jaryd gave him some influence. Alone of the Tyree men, he seemed vastly displeased by proceedings and wore a scowl beneath his helm. Perhaps he hoped she would lose.
Ahead, a party of Hadryn nobles had gathered about the far, northern side of the tachadar circle, some house guards and regular troops amongst them. Perhaps twenty men, Sasha counted as they approached. On the far bank, a great many soldiers were now gathering, their officers attempting to form them into orderly lines, so as not to present disarray in view of the walls of Halleryn. As Sasha's party strode closer, there came some yells from the walls to the right. Encouragement, Sasha realised, although she did not pay attention to the words. The uma of Kessligh was going to fight the Hadryn in honourable combat. Whatever trouble Lord Krayliss had with Kessligh's uma, it evidently did not extend to all the soldiers of Taneryn.
Answering yells came back from the troops across the river and suddenly the still, sombre morning erupted into raucous cheering, one side against the oth
er. Sasha let it wash over her, her breathing calm as Kessligh's training had taught, her pulse level and controlled. Her eyes remained fixed on the gathering ahead and the man in shiny, polished brown leathers beneath a flowing black cloak, standing upon the edge of the circle with his blade unsheathed, point-down on the turf.
The honour guard reached the circle's edge and parted. Sasha took her place, the toes of her boots on the small stones that defined the rim, and the yelling grew even louder. A horn blew from the wall to her right and then there came the thundering roll of a hide drum as many hundreds of Goerenyai men tried to equal the racket of thrice that number from across the river. From across the circle, Master Farys Varan was staring at her, eyes blazing with all the fire such a reception would breed within the heart of any Lenay warrior. Sasha felt a tingling down her spine and then elsewhere as the sensation spread. Little sleep though she'd had, she could not remember ever having felt more awake. Colours, sounds and smells assaulted her senses. She took a deep breath of the chill morning air and surveyed the circle.
It was wide, perhaps eight armspans in diameter, with room enough about the perimeter for at least thirty men to stand shoulder to shoulder. The silver-haired man of the previous evening was now removing Farys's cloak from his shoulders and folding it ceremoniously. One of Sasha's honour guard did likewise for her and her limbs welcomed the chill air. Another man, a Verenthane, presented her sword in its scabbard-a Goeren-yai tradition, performed by this Verenthane soldier at his own insistence. He had been present when she had slain those four at Perys, Sasha knew. She drew the blade clear, leaving the soldier with the scabbard, and stepped into the circle.
The yells, horns and drumbeats faded, then ceased completely. Once again, silence ruled the valley. That abrupt transition gave Sasha a worse chill than the last, and her breathing threatened to quicken as her heart skipped a beat. Focus, she reprimanded herself, testing the feel of the blade in one, thin-gloved hand. Do not think. Be.
Behind and in front, men of both parties moved about the circle, finding space for a clear vantage. One of them, in flowing black robes, stepped into the circle and walked to the centre. A priest, Sasha registered. Of course the armies of Hadryn would bring their holy men with them. Reaching the centre, he produced a small book and began reading. Across the northern side of the circle, men bowed their heads in prayer. Some of the southern side did also.
The priest completed his incantation and holy signs were made upon heart and lips. The silver-haired man who had taken Farys's cloak met her gaze by chance and smiled a smug, contemptuous little smile. These were the men who killed Krystoff. The hatred flared, a rising sea of molten fire. Focus, she forced herself with effort. Anger can work for you. Don't drown in it.
The priest walked to Farys, who sank to one knee, the sword held pointdown before him. The priest blessed him with obvious reverence. Then turned in a swirl of black robes and considered Sasha darkly as Farys rose at his back. Dark smiles spread across the gathering behind to see the priest's manner. Then he walked toward her. But Sasha did not kneel.
"Child, do not be foolish!" the priest whispered in harsh temper as an angry murmur spread across the circle's northern side. "You must make your peace with the gods, for your father's sake!"
Sasha met his stare with an intensity that made the priest's eyes widen. And he blessed himself in recoiling reflex. "Why?" she asked him. "I won't be the one meeting them today."
The priest blessed her hurriedly as she remained standing, then departed in haste. The silver-haired man then stepped into the circle as angry ripples continued amongst the Hadryn. "Let the record state," he cried to all those watching, "that Master Farys Varan, son of Lord Udys Varan, has been challenged to this duel by the uma of Kessligh Cronenverdt! Let it also state that this challenge was only accepted following the most grievous provocation and insult to Master Farys's honour! The uma of Kessligh Cronenverdt presumes to wield the authority of a man! If a man she thinks herself to be, then let her be treated as one!"
The silver-haired man glared proudly across all gathered. Then, with a spiteful, final stare at Sasha, he turned and departed. Farys advanced, proud in his stride, broad shoulders set. Imparting upon the occasion all the honour and dignity he could muster for the ritual slaying of an impetuous girl. But he would do this all the same, for the purposes of his masters, who had surely put him up to it. Kill the Goeren-yai princess. Discredit the hated Kessligh Cronenverdt. Show the pagan fools the sum total of all their hopes and prophecies. And show to all Lenayin that the tales of serrin martial prowess were nothing more than superstitious fables, to pave the way for the holy war to come.
Sasha found that she could not move. Her booted feet remained anchored, her previous calm slipping as the blood began to pound in her ears. She would kill this man to suit her purposes. He was ignorant. He did not know what he faced. Suddenly, she saw before her not a hated northerner, a peddler of spite and bigotry, but just a man, the same as any other. He had a father and a mother, and more family besides. He seemed to have perhaps thirty summers, and so probably he had a wife and children, also. Surely there were many who loved him. She had killed men before in battle, who were trying to kill her at the time. This was… something completely different.
Krystoff's coffin, open before the altar of the Saint Ambellion Temple. She had worn a white dress and held a white lily in her hands. Remembered numbness. A black, all-encompassing grief. She had wanted the service to be grand, to do justice to the great, gaping void that had opened in her world. To do justice to Krystoff. To the way he had made her feel when he smiled at her, or laughed at her humour, or hugged her and made her feel warm and loved as no one else in that grey, formal world had ever made her feel.
The funeral had failed miserably to do any of that. She had concluded in her grief and despair that everything was fake and nothing that she knew was worth keeping. She had smashed things and attacked her minders; refused to eat for days on end. That day at the funeral, even more than the day she had learned of Krystoff's death, she had truly become an unbeliever. All of their rules, all the ceremony, all the fancy clothes and pompous manners, and her father's strict and formal habits… it was all a great, stupid fraud. She'd always suspected it. That day, she'd had proof.
Something now drew her gaze down to both lightly gloved hands, grasped in a tight, unthinking grip about the hilt of her sword. Strong hands, calloused in all the right places. She'd worked hard and gleefully on those callouses when Kessligh had first brought her to Baerlyn. Her hands then had been the hands of a little girl-soft and pale. Kessligh had given her the hard, capable hands of a warrior and she loved him for that. But for all his lessons, his relentless training, high standards and cryptic wisdom, the lore of the Nasi-Keth alone could not give those hands the strength they required for the task at hand. The Nasi-Keth were an idea to her. A wonderful idea, full of promise and the prospect of a brighter future for all. But that idea remained in the future, beyond the reach of the present.
And her present… she took a deep, cold breath as it came to her, slowly, yet with the building force of revelation. Her present had been stories from old Cranyk before the fireplace of his old, creaking house near the training hall-tales of great deeds and heroic warriors, of pride and honour, and all the things that made life worth living. Her present was an evening at the Steltsyn Star with music and dance, and friends, and laughing so hard that she nearly cried. Her present was the tradition of the Wakening, the wise scolding of the women, the worship of the spirits that dwelled in all living things and that overpowering, timeless bond with the natural world.
Those things had been her present since the time she had arrived from Baen-Tar. Lost and disconnected from the world, the wisdom and humour of the Goeren-yai had come to make her feel whole again. They had reassured her that life was indeed a great and noble thing, and well worth treating as such. Kessligh had given her the hands of a warrior and the mind of a thinker… yet it was the Goeren-yai who had
relit the fire in her heart. She took another deep breath, shoulders heaving, poised within the tachadar circle with a serrin blade in her hands. The confusion lifted and suddenly all was clear. She was Goeren-yai. And it was simple.
She moved forward, barely aware that they were her steps, like paws upon the wet, morning grass. Her vision seemed to burn unnaturally sharp and she could almost count the bristles on Farys's broad chin. She may have never done this before, but the Goeren-yai had practised its like for as long as there had been people in Lenayin. She stood upon the sacred ground of countless previous battles, watched by the eyes of countless reincarnated souls. The cycle was never-ending and this moment was nothing so rare and precious as she had imagined. It was merely her turn, that was all, and the surge of ancient fury lit a fire in her veins.
Her blade moved to the starting pose with barely a thought. The posture felt a model of muscular perfection, the feet spread to shoulder width, the knees slightly bent, poised with a coiled, motionless power. Her grip on the sword had never felt so firm and secure. Her breathing came calm and impossibly, deadeningly slow. Her heart barely seemed to beat at all. The world felt so calm. So still. She savoured the moment. She did not want it to end.
Farys moved. A shift in footwork brought his blade slashing for her neck. It seemed only natural that her own posture should shift in turn, a foot sliding back as the hands came up, an intersection of steel at the shoulders, a brace of perfect power through arms, back and legs. Farys's blade deflected effortlessly by, glancing from her swinging edge like a skate on ice. She could perhaps have finished it then with his guard exposed in the follow-through, the commonest form of death for regular fighters against the svaalverd… yet the perfection was lacking and the feet could not quite position for the stroke the hands desired.
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