By a little stream that meandered between fields and forest nestled a small village of stone walls and red tile. There was a barn afire in a nearby field, the source of the smoke. Cavalrymen milled in the fields, and watched as the princess approached.
“The rebels put the barn to fire rather than allow us the fodder within,” Sir Teale explained. “The town itself is utterly deserted. The rebels spread lies of our intentions, and many flee in fear. Many shall die of exhaustion upon the road who would have lived, had they stayed and not believed the lies.”
Sofy reined to a halt near the town walls and dismounted before Sir Teale or the waiting men-at-arms could assist. She walked quickly past sties and pens to a narrow alley through the village centre. All was quite clean, she noted. Small villages in Lenayin were always dirty, not that Lenay folk were unclean, but more that the Lenay hills were rugged, with winds and rain that washed mud and dirt onto all paths after a time.
She peered into an open doorway and found a neat little space within, with simple furnishings, a floor rug, and a stone oven. All seemed in order save for empty spaces on the wall hooks where pots and pans would typically hang. Those were a common farmer's more valuable possessions, those and livestock. Probably they'd have taken them on the road, piled onto some cart or mule.
Sofy hurried further along the lane, looking into other cottages, and finding things much the same. Soldiers followed her, and all these cottages had been searched in advance, she was certain. The absence of blood and fire relieved her, and yet, the scene had the feel of a show.
She arrived in a central courtyard, where a small, pretty temple was fronted by a well, and green creepers smothered the walls. Sofy admired the well, which had a small statue atop a pagoda roof, erected to keep leaves and bird droppings from falling in. The statue was of a naked lady, her long hair in one hand, a water jug in the other. It looked like Cliamene, Verenthane goddess of fertility…only this lady was far more sensuously carved than Sofy had seen, with bare breasts and one suggestive hip. And her face and eyes seemed…could she be serrin?
Lord Elot, she realised, had entered the temple. Sofy scampered to follow him, holding her skirts to clear the rough paving steps to the door.
The space within was larger than it seemed from the outside, perhaps large enough for sixty or seventy people at a very tight squeeze. Small, high windows let in the light, and there was even a circle of coloured glass in the wall above the altar. Lord Elot stood in the middle of the aisle, hands on hips, and gazed up at that window. It showed the Verenthane gods and angels, in remarkable detail.
“What craftsmanship,” Sofy said admiringly, coming to Lord Elot's side in the gentle hush of the temple. “For such a little village.”
“Serrin made,” said Lord Elot, in a low voice. They were alone in the temple, save for a guard at the door…but sound echoed. “The serrin made many crafts for small temples like this. To build goodwill amongst the people.” Sofy might have expected a man of Elot's leanings to be bitter at the practice. But Elot seemed subdued.
“Lord Elot, is something the matter?”
“The star is still here,” said Elot, pointing to the simple, eight-pointed wooden shape hung upon the wall behind the altar, below the coloured window. “Townsfolk would not willingly leave it behind. Perhaps they left in a hurry.”
Sofy frowned, and walked to the altar. A good Verenthane always, she took a knee and made the holy sign. Rising, she examined the star. It was simple wood, polished to a varnished gleam, all edges and joins worn away with careful attention. No wider than a man's shoulders, it would not be difficult to carry. Her attention settled on a discoloured mark, against the wall. An oil stain? She rubbed at it. It came away and soiled her finger. She sniffed it. It smelled nothing remarkable. Yet suddenly the cosy little temple felt cold, as though someone had thrown the doors open to a winter's wind.
She walked quickly to the doors, and stopped upon the steps. There in the courtyard before her, amidst a retinue of lords and knights, stood the Regent Balthaar Arrosh. He smiled at her, his regal cloak slung dashingly over one shoulder. Tall, and quite handsome, hair and moustache slightly curled.
He spread his hands to her. “Well, my dearest?” he asked. “Are you quite satisfied?”
Sofy forced a bright smile. “Quite satisfied, my husband.” She trotted down the steps, curtseyed, and came to kiss him chastely on the cheek. The nobility in the courtyard all smiled at that. Balthaar's relatives, some of them. Others, his allies, lords of the powerful provinces of the “Free Bacosh,” men who commanded great armies in their own right. All together, on this grand crusade. And her, the Lenay princess whose marriage secured the allegiance of Lenayin, without which current victories would never have been possible, however little those assembled here would like it admitted.
“We are not all barbarians in these lands,” Balthaar assured her, to the further amusement of the courtyard. In all the lowlands, of course, Lenayin had been known for centuries as the land of barbarians…and perhaps not so unfairly. “We wish to return these lands to their rightful state of rulership, to the natural order of men, not to see them turned to ash.”
“I understand, my husband,” Sofy said with a further curtsey, in apology. “I never did doubt you. I merely wondered at the temper of some of the men. Losses were great in the Battle of Sonnai Plain, I had feared some would seek revenge….”
“And surely some shall,” said Balthaar, “as such things occur in all wars. But trust me that I shall endeavour to keep such happenings to a minimum, and punish those who go against my order. These lands are ours now, and to destroy them is to cut off our own limbs.”
“I understand,” said Sofy. She did not entirely meet his gaze. Balthaar took her by the arms, and for one nervous moment, Sofy feared he had guessed her thoughts.
“Dearest,” he said instead, “I come because I have a favour to ask.” Sofy met his gaze now, surprised. “I would ask you to ride to Tracato. I cannot-I must ride with the army to pursue the Steel into Enora, where they must be defeated for once and all. But Tracato's nobility have risen against the serrin devils. Much power resides there, and wealth, and a link to our Elissian allies. My interests are there, even as I cannot be.
“But I would send a trusted emissary, with wit and guile to match any man, and a stout heart too, to see my interests represented. Would you do this for me?”
Tracato? Sasha had just ridden from Tracato, and told of horrors there. And, more reluctantly, of wonders, of learning and civilisation greater than anything in all the lands of Rhodia. Ride to Tracato, to see its wonders preserved, its heritage protected, its people saved from the slaughter that Sofy feared could still descend across all these lands? To try and find a new balance between the invaders and the invaded?
Sofy's heart leaped at the prospect.
“My lord,” she said gladly, “I would be honoured.” And she hugged him, for all to see.
The wagon was a misery. Andreyis sat propped against its hard side, and tried to keep his bandaged, splinted arm from jolting. Low cloud scudded across a gloomy sky, and showers cast a grey veil across distant Enoran fields. The wagon's one coat had been given to Ulemys, the Ranash man who lay upon the floor. Ulemys was dying, and his groans were more painful than the wagon's jolting upon Andreyis's arm.
Four others shared the wagon with Andreyis, besides Ulemys. One, Sayden, was a fellow Valhanan, though from a village to the north that Andreyis had never heard of. The other three were from Hadryn, Tyree, and Yethulyn. There had been two more, when the journey had begun ten days before. One of those had been buried in a shallow grave, and the other, a Taneryn, had been burned on a pyre, as Taneryn customs dictated. It had been a struggle to gather enough dry wood in the unseasonal midsummer downpours. Andreyis knew that Ulemys would soon join them, as his gut-wound was smelling foul despite the serrins' medicines, and his deliriums grew worse. But for now, he could have the coat. It made the smell more bearable, for one thing.
He felt unutterably homesick. He had fought bravely at Shero Valley, but was now horrified at his own unmanliness when he awoke in sweating, heart thumping horror in the dead of night, thinking the battle still raged about him. A prisoner on the trailing wagon swore that he'd seen Teriyan Tremel, Andreyis's good friend and father of fellow ranch-hand Lynette, fall upon the field. Worst of all, he was a prisoner, and still alive, when most Lenays would rather die than yield to such a fate. At times, Andreyis envied his comrade Ulemys. For him, at least, the torment would soon be over.
A serrin rider held to the side of the road, perhaps ten steps behind him as he walked. It was the girl again, the same girl who always rode guard along this stretch of the procession. With serrin, one could always tell. This girl had shocking red hair, swept back with a comb to one side and several odd braids, and sparkling blue eyes. She was pale, with a lean face and fine cheekbones, and utterly striking to look at. Several days ago, when Ulemys had been more aware, he'd cursed her when she'd given him food, and called her a demon, and thrown the food onto the muddy road. Andreyis knew better than to think the serrin demons, but he could see how a devout northern Verenthane like Ulemys might mistake her for one.
She carried a bow, strung at all times. That was not good for bows. Andreyis was fortunate amongst the Lenay prisoners that his legs were unhurt-it was his arm, and a blow to his head, now healing though tender. He wondered if he dared take on the girl's bow, and make a dash for passing woods, or perhaps try and knock her off her horse. He recalled Kessligh saying that serrin women tended not to favour the bow as much as men…ironic, as Lenay men considered archery an unmanly skill, that it was the serrin women who favoured swords instead. Serrin bows required great strength to draw. It was serrin swordwork, the svaalverd, that found more use in technique than muscle.
A Banneryd man two wagons ahead had tried to run on a wooded hillside the other day. Another serrin rider, a man, had shot him in the leg before he'd gone ten strides. For now, Andreyis bided his time. Walking at least would keep him from wasting away in the back of the wagon. Yet it was unnerving that the serrin did not mind, and did not insist the least-wounded prisoners be tied or restrained in any way. They merely held their distance, and kept their bows handy, as though daring the Lenays to try and run.
Camp that night was a village, and the wounded were given a barn. As one of the few able to walk freely, Andreyis assisted the movement of those who were less fortunate from the wagons to the straw. Some of the Enorans helped too. These were mostly older men, in mail and armed with long swords, which Enoran soldiers rarely used. They were Enoran militia, some Lenays had surmised-formerly soldiers of the Steel, now retired, but mobilised to assist on less vital matters such as the transportation of prisoners. No match for a Lenay warrior in single combat, Andreyis was certain, but they were all armed and healthy, where every Lenay carried an injury. And they were smart, and experienced, and not about to let their guard down. Andreyis wondered what his little band could even do, if they did somehow manage to wrest control of the column away from their captors, and arm themselves. They were deep into Enora now, halfway to the capital Shemorane. There would be no hiding from ordinary Enorans, some of whom were also former Steel, and many of whom had horses. Soon the Lenays would be run down by reinforcements, and all pretence at civilised conduct toward prisoners in wartime would surely cease.
Andreyis took a place by the barn door, nearest the draught, and ate the food that the Enorans brought to them from the cooking fires outside. Militiamen talked with local villagers by the barn doors as the prisoners ate, the villagers peering in with curious eyes. Neither Andreyis nor any of his comrades understood more than a few words of Enoran, but it seemed clear what the villagers were saying.
“So these are the fearsome men of Lenayin.” A few of them joked with the militiamen, stifling laughter. Clearly they were not so intimidated, and made jokes at the Lenays' expense. Andreyis knew that he ought to be angered, but he could not muster the energy.
After the meal, the serrin began their rounds of the wounded. Some men allowed treatment, now accustomed to this evening ritual. Others refused, and the serrin simply gave medicines to their comrades for them to apply. There appeared to be six serrin in the column, Andreyis reckoned. Four seemed old; two definitely were, and two more moved as though they might be-with serrin it was often hard to tell. The last two seemed young. One was a tall lad with hair so black it shaded, astonishingly, toward blue. The other was the red-haired girl.
She knelt before him now, as he looked up in surprise, lost in thought with his back to a hay bale. “Show me your arm.”
Andreyis showed it to her. She unwrapped it and checked the splints. The forearm had fractured, but would heal well enough in time. Her hands were firm, but caused little pain.
“You walk like one accustomed to riding,” the girl said as she worked. She spoke Torovan, Andreyis's only second tongue.
“I ride,” said Andreyis.
“Horses are expensive in Lenayin,” said the girl, dubiously.
“Are you calling me a liar?”
The girl snorted, and said nothing. The angle of her chin suggested…contempt. Her eyes were cool. Andreyis realised that she was very young. He had nineteen summers. She might be considerably younger than that.
“How old are you?” he asked.
“Seventeen,” said the girl. Andreyis knew from Sasha and Kessligh's tales how fast some serrin grew up. There was no reason not to believe her.
“That's why they make you guard prisoners,” he guessed. “Instead of doing anything exciting.”
“Exciting,” she said scornfully, rewrapping his arm. “Were you excited in battle? Does all this suffering excite you?”
“We're not barbarians.”
“Hmph,” said the girl, utterly unconvinced. “I'm sure you don't even think a woman should be performing these duties.”
“For a serrin,” Andreyis said drily, “you seem awfully certain of things you can't know. One of my best friends is a girl who could best your entire column single-handed should she come to rescue us.”
The serrin girl frowned at him, finishing her wrapping. And sat back on her heels for a moment. “You're that one.” Andreyis just looked at her. “The friend of Sashandra Lenayin.” She said something in Saalsi, and to Andreyis's amazement, looked a little flustered. “I am as'shin sath,” she explained, a little awkwardly. “You have made me…” She waved a hand, searching for the right word, and slightly embarrassed that it eluded her.
“Wrong?” Andreyis offered.
The girl frowned. Then shrugged. “Perhaps,” she conceded. “Though it is yilen'eth. Indelicate.”
“But accurate.”
The girl rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You argue like my brother. What kind of a girl is Sashandra Lenayin?”
Andreyis frowned. It seemed an odd question, from a serrin. “Most serrin seem to know all about her. You didn't know I was her friend, though you knew her friend was in this column. And you know nothing about her.”
“And?” the girl challenged, eyebrows arched.
“I'd heard serrin were curious.”
The girl's eyes flashed. “I'd heard humans were arrogant. You seem to presume that my lack of interest in you or your friend is some kind of failing.”
Andreyis found himself smiling, just a little. “You really do think we're barbarians, don't you?”
“So?” she said, defensively. “
You march halfway across Rhodia to attack Enora, you fight in the service of bloodthirsty murderers, and your culture seems to love nothing but war.”
“And how much of Lenay culture do you know?” Andreyis retorted.
“Deny to me that Lenays love war!”
Andreyis shrugged. “I can't. But we also love music and dancing, and good food and family and weddings…you shouldn't judge a people so narrowly.”
“When that narrowness threatens my people's very existence, I see no reason why not,” the girl snapped. “Your arm is fine, it should heal straight and you can take off the splints in another five days.” She got up. “My people have a love of healing, even our enemies.”
Andreyis sighed, and leaned his head back against the hay. “Thanks,” he murmured, and closed his eyes. “If you only knew how much I'd rather we fought with you than against you.”
He opened his eyes to watch her walk away, but found instead that she was crouching once more, staring at him. She'd heard him. “Why don't you?” she asked him, faintly horrified. As though she simply did not understand.
Andreyis felt very sad. “I don't know,” he murmured. “Perhaps we're barbarians.”
The girl looked disgusted. And confused. And…she got up, and stood over him, looking very odd indeed.
“What's your name?” Andreyis thought to ask.
“Yshel,” said the girl.
“I'm Andreyis.”
Yshel stared a moment longer. Then shook her head in disbelief, and stalked off.
THREE
At midday the Lenay column paused at a lake. Sasha dismounted, removed her boots, and, barefoot, led her horse into the shallow water. As the gelding drank, she looked about at the shore. Upon the far bank, fields climbed a slope to a village on the crest. To the right and west, a stream meandered to the lake edge, framed by an old stone arch. To the left and east, virgin forest, lovely green and dappled shade.
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