Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four (4 page)

The figure that killed him wove sideways, slim like a woman, and tall for one, spinning a silver blade. Sasha glimpsed snow-white hair beneath a tied black scarf, and emerald eyes that blazed in the night like green fire. Familiar eyes, widening now with recognition. Sasha's heart, recently accelerated, nearly stopped.

Rhillian swung first, or nearly first, as the svaalverd forbade hesitation. Steel met steel and slid fast. Sasha, reversing that first cross into the low second, met firm defence, and pressed on that contact, just a little. A small slide of the front foot, a pressure of wrists, and the blade angle changed, and Rhillian took a step back to adjust. A moment's balance, a moment more time. Sasha led with the left shoulder for the high cut to follow, and altered the angle viciously at the last moment…and Rhillian abandoned defence for a desperate spin beneath, and out of trouble. Sasha's blade took off her white braid in passing.

Rhillian spun into the path of the Hadryn man, who had abandoned crossbow for sword. Sasha yelled warning even as he attacked, not that a Hadryn would have listened. Rhillian recovered to a near-perfect up-slanted deflection rotating into an utterly perfect beheading, in barely the time required to blink. And stood above the fallen, headless body, staring at her old friend past the bloody edge of a silver blade.

Sasha stared back. Her strokes had been all reflex. Had they stood further apart at the moment of recognition, she doubted she could have swung, had Rhillian not attacked. But she had. They had. Another moment between them, nearly the last.

Sasha had seen the ruthless precision of Rhillian's technique before. In battle, Rhillian feared little, because in style, she had little to fear. Her expression now was not fear, but rather…acknowledgement. She'd have been dead, had she not abandoned the contest. Perhaps, had she not known precisely whom she'd faced, she'd have shown more confidence, and died. She acknowledged that now, with her eyes. A wary, sombre green blaze.

“Don't do it,” Sasha wanted to say. Her lips could not move. She had to watch Rhillian's centre, where her vision could catch the entirety of any rapid motion in hands, feet, and balance, but her eyes were drawn back to Rhillian's face. Those familiar eyes, that expressed so much in friendship, but not in battle. Only now, beyond the recognition of death barely avoided, there was anger, and shock, now all settling to a brooding, grim fatalism.

Her eyes flicked to Sasha's boots. Always the feet, in svaalverd. Sasha knew her old friend well. Selfless to the last, she was sizing up the threat, and wondering how many of her own comrades would die at Sasha's blade if she did not attempt to remove this threat now. An impulse seized Sasha to throw away her blade, and kneel, and have Rhillian be done with it all. But her hands did not twitch upon the well-worn grip, for Lenay honour could not conceive of such a thing. She wondered if Rhillian would still strike, should she kneel, unarmed. She wondered what could have possibly gone wrong, that they should arrive at this moment.

More footsteps were running, but softly, from the river. Sasha took a step back. Rhillian did not follow. Another step. For a moment, Sasha thought Rhillian might call to those approaching, and tell them to stop, and buy time for her escape. But Rhillian's face barely twitched, her stare intent, her weapon ready. When Sasha took another step back, Rhillian tensed as though about to pursue.

Sasha took off sprinting, through the undergrowth and between the trees, hoping against hope that her foot would not catch and trip her. It did not, and after a short, mad dash, there were fires ahead, and lines of Lenay soldiers crouched low and peering into the gloom.

“It's me, I'm coming back!” Sasha yelled in Lenay, so that her men could hear her voice, realising too late that many serrin attackers were women, and spoke Lenay flawlessly. Luckily her Lenays erred on the side of caution, and she hurdled their crouching line, and stopped to lean her back against a tree.

A Fyden man came to her. “The others?” he asked.

Sasha shook her head. And slid down the tree to crouch on her haunches. “That was stupid,” she muttered. “I shouldn't have done that.” Two men dead, because she'd had some crazy urge to purge her demons, or whatever that had been. And suddenly she was furious at herself—here she was, scared of the personal trauma of fighting a friend, and two brave comrades were dead by that same friend's blade. She should have killed Rhillian in an instant, to avenge their deaths. Lenay honour trumped all, wasn't that the decision she'd made, in leaving Tracato to come here in the first place?

“That was brave,” the Fyden man corrected her. “Did you kill any?”

“Our Hadryn friend hit one,” said Sasha. “
He
was brave, fighting serrin in the dark. And your man.” She, at least, had some confidence of surviving such a fight. Spirits, she'd been stupid.

She got to her feet, and ran back toward the vanguard. Her progress was met with some cheers and approving gestures from those about. It made her angry at her own people, that they so easily confused stupidity with bravery, and thought it good.

Yasmyn greeted her with a flask of water by a tent, and Sasha took a long drink. “Crazy woman,” Yasmyn told her, surmising well enough what had happened without needing to be told. “You must be blessed, to still be alive.”

“I'm not blessed,” said Sasha, after a hard swallow, “I'm cursed.” She felt dizzy. “I need a moment.”

She pushed past a tent flap, into the privacy of lordly quarters. From outside came calls of an all-clear, and a trumpet to tell the column. Damn trumpets, everyone was using them now, she'd never liked them. She sat on the edge of a cot, and put her head in her hands. The moment she closed her eyes she saw Rhillian, but it was not their recent meeting she saw. She saw emerald eyes asparkle with laughter, teasing her over some misunderstanding of the Saalsi tongue. She remembered the feel of Rhillian's hair in her hands, braiding it as they stood before the windows of a
talmaad
mansion, contemplating the view across Petrodor Harbour, and talking of their childhoods. And she recalled Rhillian's arms about her, when she'd once felt miserable, and thinking herself alone in her homesickness had leaned in a doorway and dreamed of Lenayin…only for Rhillian to approach unbidden from behind, and embrace her, and rest her cheek against Sasha's head.

“Unlike a stone,” she'd murmured in Saalsi, “the burden of sadness can be lifted with a smile.”

Sasha had smiled, then. Now, she cried.

S
ofy rode at Princess Alora's side, and watched the passing countryside.

“I do think the translator has it wrong,” Princess Alora declared, shoulders straight in elegant sidesaddle atop a silver mare. Ten ladies of the court rode here, just behind the head of the column, protected by advancing armour in all directions. “Fifty-three deklen cannot equal ten gold sovereigns. I think it more likely they equal five.”

Beyond the trees at the end of the field, a line of smoke was rising into the blue sky. Sofy watched it and wondered what burned at its source.

“The translator was quite adamant,” Lady Mercene insisted. Mercene was from Elisse, the lone Bacosh Peninsula state, recently defeated by the Rhodaani Steel, and now about to be liberated once more. Mercene, her family and country folk were eager at the prospect. “One gold sovereign equals five and a third deklen in Tracato, the price is well established.”

“But dear Mercene,” said Alora, “the ledger books we recovered from that little riverside village stated that farming income from a single acre was seventy-nine deklen, about fifteen sovereigns. And that in a less-than-average season. A farmstead in the most fertile regions of Larosa makes no more than four-and-a-half sovereigns in the best seasons.”

Sofy spied a farmhouse behind the line of trees. It had pretty brick walls overgrown with ivy, a chicken coop, and a pigsty. The house was of a stonework quality sufficient for minor nobility, yet far below the size demanded by noble honour. Could it be that such dwellings belonged to common folk? The ladies had nearly concluded such several days ago, and now changed the subject whenever it threatened to stray back.

These farmhouses clustered into not-quite-a-village, sharing a common series of little irrigation canals, with movable gates and good stonework. Where they had passed crops, all had seemed unusually lush and colourful. Sofy had no difficulty imagining that these lands, farmed by Rhodaani farmers using serrin-inspired methods, were at least three times more productive than what the Regent's allies liked to call the “Free Bacosh.” It would explain, for one thing, why the Steel armies of the Saalshen Bacosh were so well equipped, and the roads, bridges, and buildings of such high quality.

“Sir Teale,” Sofy announced, and one of the knights riding before the ladies' party reined back to Sofy's side. “I would like to know what village burns yonder.”

“Perhaps not a village, highness,” said Teale. “Perhaps a wood, or bales of hay, set to fire to deprive us of it.”

“Whatever the source,” Sofy repeated with certainty, “I would like to know it.”

Teale nodded within his scarred helmet. “Of course, Your Highness.”

Sofy bit her lip in frustration. About her the great army advanced, looting and burning as it went, as great armies would. Her husband, the soon-to-be High King Balthaar, assured at her insistence that the destruction would not be too great, that the lovely towns would not be burned unless enemies used them for defence, that artworks would be preserved, and families allowed to return to their homes, in time.

But they would not allow her to visit the towns that the column passed, claiming the region was thick with serrin, whose long bows could kill an armoured man from a hundred paces, and an unarmoured man from two. Now she was reduced to sending Sir Teale to enquire into the fate of passing towns, knowing that he lied to her when he returned, and hoping only that he did not lie too much.

The ladies rode in awkward silence. At times they spoke amongst themselves, of noble claims to these lands, and lineages long suspended. Two hundred years it had been, since the feudal ways had ruled in these parts. Many in the conquering army claimed ancestry, or argued for the suspension of whatever title now existed. But they did not argue the point too loudly in Sofy's presence, as they saw her worry for the fate of traitorous locals, and made snide remarks—when they thought she could not hear—that the queen-in-waiting worried more for serrin half-breeds than the lives of Bacosh outriders.

“I would speak with Lord Elot, if you please,” Sofy announced loudly to a nearby servant, who turned his horse to gallop to the rear.

Soon Elot appeared at her side, astride a large horse. Sofy's mare was a little taller, allowing her to view him almost eye to eye. Lord Elot bowed to her. He was a big, bearded man, a native of Rhodaan. A traitor, perhaps, though not in his eyes. He was a noble, believing in all those things the serrin law had denied nobility for two hundred years. Upheaval in the Rhodaani capital of Tracato had led him here, with Sofy's sister Sasha at his side—her to join with the Army of Lenayin, and him to join with the Army of the Bacosh, and reclaim his noble birthright, and those of all his fellows.

Now, however, and in spite of heroism in a glorious victory, Elot looked far from content with the fates.

“I sent Sir Teale to investigate the smoke yonder,” said Sofy. They spoke Torovan, the trading tongue of the Sharaal Sea routes, and common amongst the noble classes of Lenayin.

“He will find nothing,” said Elot, grimly. “He never finds anything.”

Sofy gave Elot a sideways look. He did not seem pleased to see his nation invaded. What had he expected, if not this? “Whose land is this?” Sofy asked.

“Family Miel,” said Elot. “A well-established claim, the title documents remain hidden, Lord Miel knows where, if he survives in Tracato. Yet Family Junae of Larosa now informs me that their claim through a defecting cousin is superior.”

Thus the grim look, Sofy thought. She'd been gathering something of these developments, and was not surprised.

“And your own family's lands?” she asked the Rhodaani lord.

“From Siadene to the north of here, all the way to the sea. Similarly challenged.” Sofy just looked at him. “Your Highness, I would be in deepest gratitude to you if you would speak with your lord husband, and put a stop to these frivolous claims. This should be a time of celebration for the forces of honour. We should not be divided against one another so early, before the final victory is even won.”

“It seems to me, Lord Elot,” Sofy said mildly, “that you have misunderstood the nature of the feudal society that you have idolised for so long from the isolation of Tracato. Gratitude and allegiances come after the acquisition of land, not before. If you have land, many wish to be your friend. Today, in Larosan eyes, you are landless, and in no position to make demands.”

“There are laws!” Elot insisted with anger.

“That can be reissued at my husband's single word,” said Sofy. “I understand that laws are a somewhat more permanent and serious matter in Tracato. Or they were, until your little internal war burned the law houses down.”

“That was not us,” Elot muttered. “That was the peasants.”

“And were you so sad? Given that those laws denied you the noble title that you seek as your right?”

“I can prove my claims,” said Elot, stubbornly. “When we reach Tracato, I shall do so, with our records.”

Sofy remained silent, and Elot met her gaze. Her eyes held warning. She was young yet, and recently naive in the ways of the world. No longer. Elot nodded slowly, noting the warning. His gaze held thanks. She dared not speak her fears, yet Elot was not a stupid man. If he should fail to reach Tracato alive, or his records could be destroyed before presentation to the soon-to-be king, it would be as though Elot's claims had never existed.

They had ridden a short distance further when Sir Teale returned at a gallop, silver armour shining in the sun.

“Highness,” he said, with a nod to her in the saddle. “I bring word from your husband, the Regent. He is aware of your concern, and wishes that you ride to see this town in person.”

Sofy blinked at him in surprise. A glance at the ladies of her party showed them similarly surprised, and some scowling.

“But of course, Sir Teale!” Sofy exclaimed. “Let us go at once! Lord Elot, would you join us? I would appreciate your insight.”

“An honour, Princess,” said Elot.

The ride to the town was a short canter across ploughed fields and men-at-arms stood ready at open gates. Even as Sofy marvelled at the beauty of the countryside, she spotted gleams of armour from amidst the trees, and the shuffling movement of horses. Her path was guarded, with some preparation. What was her husband's game?

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.