Markan, she thought, seemed almost to be smiling. Many stared awestruck, yet Markan knew this game. Worse, he liked it. He bowed a little and looked quite pleased that he had driven her to this at last.
“The men of Lenayin dare not place the Synnich-ahn in a cage,” he replied. “We seek only for the Synnich to lead us to victory!” A huge cheer raised in reply.
“The Synnich does not care for victory!” Sasha snarled. “The Synnich wants only blood! Be careful what you wish for, little man, for the dark spirits care nothing for your glory.”
“The Synnich-ahn should be warned,” Markan intoned. “I am Crastahn, led by the greatest of the old Isfayen spirits. We of the Isfayen know you, Synnich, drinker of blood, destroyer of worlds. We see that you have chosen a servant in this world, and we see that you have chosen well. But the servant is only flesh, and may fall as others fall. I am only flesh, and I will make her fall, if she cuts at my honour and the honour of my spirit guide too deeply.”
“You will die,” Sasha hissed.
“There is no need for death. Tymorain. Tonight. All shall come, and honour shall decide it.”
“The Synnich-ahn does not fight with sticks,” Sasha said scornfully, as the stallion fought for his head. “Only steel drinks blood.”
“The Synnich's servant is smaller than I. Sharp steel evens the odds. Tymorain then, yet the Synnich-ahn shall fight armoured, while I shall be bare.”
“Done,” Sasha snapped. “You claim to offer me power, yet you clasp the true power to yourself. You make new laws, and insist that others shall follow them. If you truly wish to follow me, you will let me make the laws, for all of Lenayin.”
Sasha spun the stallion fast and galloped from the scene and across the bridge, men scattering before her. Yasmyn followed.
“How was that?” Sasha asked her once they had cleared the camp's perimeter, and slowed to a canter heading for Jahnd.
“Perfect,” said Yasmyn. “My brother was impressed. Some others were frightened.”
“Wonderful. Now if I can just figure a way to beat that giant in a head-bashing contest.” She glanced at Yasmyn when she did not reply. “Do you think I can?”
Yasmyn shrugged. “Against my brother? With blades, very likely. With stanches? I doubt it.”
Damon had a surprise for her, and they waited in a noisy yard near a flaming furnace and bellows while the armourer went and fetched it.
“You're crazy,” Damon told her, for what Sasha figured was the ten thousandth time in her life. “You're challenging him for the right to make law? What would that make you, if not queen?”
“Royalty in Lenayin makes all law save for those laws that apply to royals,” Sasha replied. “Those, the people make to rule us. Grandpa Soros made it that way.”
“I'm beginning to wonder if Grandpa Soros didn't waste his time,” Damon said sourly. “All his efforts and we're still a pack of barbarians.”
“With potential,” Sasha insisted.
“Nice facepaint,” said Damon. Sasha exhaled hard, and slumped against a post. “Look, I appreciate you making this effort on my behalf, but…”
“If there's one thing I'm not doing,” Sasha snapped, “it's acting on your behalf. As much as I dislike the nobility, they did take a land of barbarians who were always at each others' throats and settle it down to some kind of civility. Now Markan and company want to return it to its previous state. Succession by family lineage can be pretty silly too, but at least it's stable.”
“If you beat him, and they grant you the power to make laws, you could put a council in charge,” Damon suggested. “Like here, or the Saalshen Bacosh. Abolish royalty.”
“Damn I'd love to,” Sasha muttered, “but I don't think we're ready. Do you?”
Damon made a face. “If I were king,” he said, “I'd build institutions first. Institutions like you describe in Tracato…And I like the idea of those redcoats. An independent administration…”
“The lords will never let you.”
“If we win,” Damon replied, “there won't be too many lords left.” Sasha shrugged in concession. Such discussion had the offhanded quality of gallows humour. “Tol'rhen. I'd love there to be Tol'rhen in Lenayin.”
“So you build institutions that bring Lenayin together,” Sasha summarised. “Then you try establishing councils after that.”
Damon shrugged. “Maybe. It's an idea. But that's the problem-Lenayin until this date has never been anything more than ‘just an idea.’ It needs to become a fact before there can be any alternative to kings. Or queens.”
Sasha considered him. “You'll make a good king.”
“Ha. Said the peasant girl with muddy feet.”
Sasha grinned. “We only have five impossible things to achieve to make it happen.”
“At least six-defeating Balthaar counts for at least three on its own. Including making Markan and his friends see reason. I'm not sure I could hit him hard enough with a stanch to hurt him-you have no chance.”
Sasha shrugged. “We'll see.”
“So what law will you write, if you win?”
“I'm not sure yet. I may ask Rhillian for advice.” Damon looked suspicious. Sasha grinned. “And you, of course. My liege.”
“I hope he hits you hard.”
Damon seemed in good enough humour, despite the indignity of the Army of Lenayin preferring her at their head than him. Damon was no egotist. He knew that his natural support, as royalty, lay amongst lords and Verenthanes-a minority on this side of Lenayin's division. These were naturally more her people than his, and circumstance had made them more so. He knew at least that they did not hate him, and many respected him greatly…just not so greatly as her.
They were interrupted by a new arrival moving between hammering blacksmiths with a limp. In a loose serrin shirt and long hair, Sasha took several moments to recognise Jaryd. He hugged her hard.
“Thank you for looking after Sofy,” Sasha told him, with feeling.
Damon embraced him in turn, then gave him a light slap on the cheek and a mock-warning look. “That's for looking after my sister a little too closely,” he said.
Jaryd smiled crookedly. There was no smirk, no cheeky humour. “It honestly wasn't my idea,” he said simply. “I did try to explain to her that there was sure to be a penalty of death in there somewhere for me, but she asked me who would carry it out, here in Jahnd.”
“You mean, aside from me?” said Damon.
“Well,” said Sasha, exhaling hard. “I mean, she's right. The entire structure of rulership will change depending on the battle to come, and the only people who care that you're fucking the Princess Regent are on the other side. Besides,” she added, “everyone knows you two have always wanted each other.”
“Speaking of those on the other side,” said Damon, “they're the ones who stripped you of your noble title. When I'm king, I will restore it. You'll need it, if you're to marry Sofy.”
For a long moment, Jaryd was unable to speak. “I thought marriage talk would do that to him,” Sasha observed wryly.
“I…” Jaryd managed after a moment. “I'm not certain I can accept.”
“Listen,” Damon said firmly. “You're my friend, but if you think you're going to continue to share my sister's bed without an imminent marriage, you're about to learn differently.”
“I had two companions on my ride with Sofy,” Jaryd replied. “One was Asym, Markan's favoured man. The other was Jandlys, son of Krayliss of Taneryn. In my time with them they spoke to me often of their beliefs, as Goeren-yai. I do not know that I have ever felt the old ways as strongly as I should-my change of faith was always a matter of convenience more than belief. But now, both Jandlys and Asym are dead.”
Sasha swore softly. She'd liked Asym, and though she hadn't known Jandlys, she felt somewhat responsible for his father's death. Now, his heir had been killed too.