Sasha sighed, and nodded, with what she hoped was conviction. Sofy did not yet truly know war. She did not consider how dearly even victory would cost them.
They exchanged tales, as servants brought breakfast.
“So where is Jaryd?” Sasha asked.
“With the army,” Sofy explained. “We reached Tormae last evening; we could have reached Jahnd that night but the villagers said there would be grand events for you, so we thought we'd wait until morning.”
“We were in Tormae just yesterday,” Sasha confirmed.
“Yes, they said. Isn't it lovely? Errollyn, Saalshen is so beautiful! And your people! I've yet to meet any who were fearful or unkind, even once they learned who I am.”
“You should see the star festivals,” Errollyn said sadly. “The next is in a week, if I have my calendar right. Only I fear it will be skipped this year.”
“I would love to see everything Saalshen has to offer,” Sofy enthused, breaking bread and spreading butter. “I would love to spend a year here-I'm sure even then I could barely scratch the surface.”
“Sofy.” Sasha drew her attention, cautiously. “So you and Jaryd are…?”
“Fucking, yes.” And Sofy laughed at the look on Sasha's face.
“Sofy…you're still married.”
Sofy chewed her bread. “What's your point?”
“To the Regent.”
Sofy shrugged, determined to finish her mouthful before answering.
“I like this new development,” Errollyn admitted, very amused. Sasha was too incredulous to respond. What in the world had happened to her very respectable and proper little sister?
“I could not reconcile it for a very long time,” Sofy said after a swallow. “I mean, I love people, and I love all the things about people that make them difficult. Gods know I had enough of it with our family.”
“No argument there.”
“Yourself included,” Sofy added pointedly, but with a sparkle. Sasha nodded impatiently. “And I got so angry with you sometimes, because you fell in love with all these things that the mindless head bashers in Lenayin love so much. You know, duelling, warfare…”
“We are a nation of warriors, Sofy.”
“We,” Sofy retorted with sarcasm. “Well, I'm not. And I've never accepted that people are evil, because that's just the excuse these mindless brutes use to justify killing each other. So I could not believe that Balthaar was evil, and for the longest time I refused to accept that he could do all these evil things that you and others accused him of. But then I saw Tracato. And I saw what the Elissians did to those innocent townsfolk we tried to save, and…”
“But none of that was Balthaar directly,” Sasha interrupted, watching Sofy intently. “Tracato was set afire by the Black Order. And the Elissians follow themselves.”
Sofy smiled. “But this is the point, Sasha. I realised it did not matter that Balthaar had not ordered these things directly. This is not a question of personal responsibility. It's a question of ideas. And beliefs. Balthaar's ideas led to that. He shares those beliefs. He thinks them innocuous enough, and godly, and right and proper, as he's been taught. He is not a bad man, and he genuinely believes that what he is doing is right, and will lead to the betterment of all the world, and all the people in it.”
“Except mine,” said Errollyn.
“Yes,” Sofy agreed. “In his mind, serrin are not ‘people.’” And she reached a hand to grasp Errollyn's in apology. “It's only what he's been taught-he does not know any better.”
“How tragic for him.”
“It is,” Sofy agreed. “Because his wife has now realised that none of it matters. Him being good, many of his people being good, it's irrelevant. We have to stop them. Kill them all if we must. There may be no evil people, but there are certainly evil ideas and evil actions. It is very sad if good people must be killed to prevent their evil actions, but there it is. It's really quite stunning how simple it is when you realise it.”
“So what will you do now?”
Sofy looked faintly surprised at the question. “Well, I cannot fight, but I can stand on a rampart and wave a banner. I can declare before all friends and enemies that the Princess Regent is so convinced of the evil of her husband's actions that she has turned against him.”
“And against Koenyg? And Myklas?”
Sofy looked sad, but she did not waver. “Yes,” she said simply.
Sasha let out a breath. She looked at Errollyn. Errollyn nodded. “It's going to be horrible, Sofy,” she said. “The most horrible thing ever. Far worse than what you saw in Tracato, or in the Udalyn Valley.”
“I know.”
“Jahndis are evacuating their children and old folk. Many others are joining them, those not needed for preparations. I'd rather you were with them.”
Sofy smiled. “I'd rather you were with them. But here we are.” Sasha sighed. “Now, what are you going to do about these fools who wish to make you queen?”
Sasha blinked. And could not resist saying, half joking, “You don't think I might make a good queen?”
Sofy laughed. “Sasha, don't be silly. You must stop them.”
“And what if they do not listen?”
“It seems that all of your friends and loved ones have been forced to fight their own people recently: Kessligh, Errollyn, Jaryd, your friend Rhillian, and now me. When will you start?”
Sasha cantered toward the centre of the Lenay camp, with Yasmyn close by. All about were Lenay campsites, mostly open fires, a few tents, many bedrolls or blankets donated by grateful Jahndis or nearby serrin. Men watched as she passed, some pausing in their tasks of washing, mending kit, or preparing food. In far fields, men trained in large ranks, coordinating manoeuvres with great yells.
The valley was wide enough that fifteen thousand Lenay warriors and their horses did not feel particularly cramped for space. Soldiers spread up the hills in search of wood and game, or roamed into Jahnd, or nearby serrin villages. Even here she saw serrin, many bringing food, others cooking or in conversation with these ferocious strangers. Many more serrin were arriving from elsewhere in Saalshen, Sasha knew, and most of them could not fight. Rhillian and Errollyn were at a loss to know what to do with them all.
Ahead, tents clustered near a small bridge across the Dhemerhill River. Men were waiting, having heard her message to assemble. Yasmyn had helped Sasha make the spirit marks on her cheeks, three lines for the three levels of being, like the tri-braid in her hair. She wore a bloodred cloth tied about her head, a krayhal the Isfayen called it, the declaration of a bloodwarrior on the path. A second krayhal she had tied about her waist. Sasha let the stallion prance, and the young horse obliged, delighted.
Men parted as she rode into the central space between tents. There she found Markan and Ackryd, and a number of lord yuans, as they were now calling themselves. Her allies and friends, men who would die for her, and she for them and their ways. Yet now she pushed all such thoughts aside and rode straight to Markan, and reared the stallion.
His hooves lashed, and Markan backed up. When the stallion grounded, she saw Markan glaring up at her, only too aware of the insult she had paid him, in forcing his retreat before these men.
“You do not own me!” Sasha yelled at him. She drew her blade and pointed it at his chest. “I am Sashandra Lenayin, once uma to Kessligh Cronenverdt! I am Synnich-ahn, and the great spirit has driven me through walls of enemies, and I have drunk of their blood!” Spirits signs were made in a flurry about the circle, but Sasha did not cease. “You seek to put the Synnich in a cage, with a crown on her head! I am not made for cages, I am made for war! Who will fight me, and dare to show me my place!”
She wheeled the stallion, and ran him in a circle. Men scampered back as she tore before them, then back again. The horse reared again, and she let him, glaring all the while with a blade in her hand.