“Lenayin seems full of humans who respect you more for having killed a lot of them.”
“Yes, but killed honourably.”
“I'm very glad at the prospect of some Lenays on my side. But I can never hope to understand them.”
“Nor they you,” said Sasha. “It does not matter, so long as we agree that Rhodia would be better if Saalshen won, and Regent Arrosh did not.” Sasha reached for and clasped Rhillian's hand. “We must have Damon. If we can persuade Damon, we shall have momentum. Many will follow.”
“Damon is not the warrior that Koenyg is,” said Rhillian, frowning. “The men of Lenayin will follow whom they respect above whom they like.”
Sasha shook her head. “I'm defying Koenyg-for most of those inclined against the Regent, that's enough. If they want a respected warrior to follow, they have me, and even Kessligh. But we need Damon so that we have a royal, the next in line to the throne. Lenay men will never be royalists, but it is important all the same.”
“What about you?” Rhillian asked, with a penetrating stare. “If none of your brothers will come, there is always yourself.” Sasha blinked. She hadn't thought of that for even an instant. “Third in line, by my reckoning. Assuming Wylfred is still out of consideration, and your other sisters could never be accepted, where men might make an exception for a woman who fights as you do. Ahead of Myklas by birth, only Koenyg and Damon come before you.”
“All the more reason to get Damon to come over,” Sasha said adamantly. “What you describe is terrifying.”
Rhillian smiled. “In that, I am certain I empathise. Come, we must move. How is this played?”
“I have no idea,” said Sasha, rising. “I've only managed a minor insurrection before. Nothing on this scale.”
SEVEN
Koenyg raged. He stood off to the side of the road and kicked at a low wall until loose stones fell and rolled in the grass. Then, his feet undoubtedly sore, he roared obscenities to the sky.
Damon sat astride his horse, and felt numb. The Army of Lenayin had paused in its descent down a long, rolling hill. The army was no longer a single line, but had spread wide across the hillside, as cavalry tired of being further back in the column galloped to the front.
Now, none were advancing. Hooves thundered as soldiers and officers raced back and forth between groups of men, asking opinions, demanding answers. Across the hillside yells could be heard, voices and arguments, men debating their cause.
A new thunder sounded. Down in the shallow valley, a line of clustered horsemen were galloping, small horses bearing wild-haired Goeren-yai.
“That's the Taneryn leaving,” someone remarked. Koenyg stood with hands on hips by the wall and watched them go. There were hundreds of horsemen. The Great Lord Ackryd was a friend of Sasha's, had ridden with her in the Northern Rebellion, and owed his great lordship to Sasha's opposition to the previous Great Lord Krayliss. But mostly, the Goeren-yai of Taneryn had never liked this war, and had always favoured the serrin. Now, the Synnich-ahn had switched sides, and her most devoted men were following.
No one was entirely certain how it had happened. Typically, important news would arrive at the royal vanguard first, but this time it had miraculously appeared within the army's ranks before the vanguard knew of its import. The vanguard knew only that there was uproar, the breaking of ranks, and an increasing number of desertions. Now, the Taneryn left. A lot of Goeren-yai from various provinces were joining them, not waiting for their provincial fellows to decide. Most others were holding, for now. War forged strong bonds between men of the same region, and they were not leaving without consensus from their comrades. The Army of Lenayin, hardly cohesive at the best of times, was in turmoil.
“I'm going to kill her!” Koenyg roared. “No, I'm going to string her up and gut her, then I'll kill her!”
Damon wondered if it even occurred to Koenyg that this event said as much or more about his war and his leadership of the army as it did about Sasha. No, he thought-it probably didn't.
News of exactly what Sasha had done was vague at best. Certainly she was now riding with the serrin. Some said she'd attacked Larosan knights. Others said she'd turned on her Isfayen comrades. Others still said she'd been possessed by the Synnich spirit, and had taken flight and killed hundreds with great bursts of fire from her hands. That last seemed unlikely.
But certainly, she had defected. Around Damon, the lords of the royal vanguard looked dumbfounded. Many spoke in disbelief, wondering what madness had possessed their common countrymen. Certainly the war had become unpopular with some, and had always been so with others, but to respond like this to the defection of “that stupid girl”?
Wasn't it just like the Lenay nobility, Damon thought, to be always the last to know? Jaryd would have understood, even were he still nobility. Damon wished Jaryd were here now. Jaryd would rally support, and would ride to Sasha's side. Jaryd would urge Damon to do the same, to stand up to Koenyg, finally, and use the power of the Army of Lenayin for an honourable cause. But now, Damon merely sat in the saddle amidst a mass of confused nobility and watched the unfolding calamity. And hated himself for it.
Isfayen horsemen were galloping up the hill toward the vanguard. Nobles pointed to them. “The Isfayen have returned!” one shouted, with some relief.
“Well, that's something,” said another. “That's Markan, they'll not follow the bitch now.”
They parted as the Isfayen arrived. Great Lord Markan leaped from his frothing horse, and strode to Koenyg. He loomed over the Lenay king in leathers, mail and studs, his black hair flying.
“My Lord King,” said Markan, and took a knee. Koenyg looked a little more composed at that.
“The Isfayen return,” said Koenyg. “What do you report?”
“The Isfayen return for honour,” Markan announced.
“The Isfayen are always honourable.”
Markan stared up at him. “The Isfayen shall not turn against their king from a distance. If the Isfayen are to renounce their king, they shall do it face-to-face.”
Koenyg stared. Silence settled across the lords, broken only by the continuing chaos further back in the column.
“Are you threatening me?” Koenyg asked, very quietly.
Markan stood. “This war has no honour. Our allies are dishonourable, and unworthy of the Isfayen. We have fought the Enoran Steel, and found them brave and skilled. We have fought the talmaad of Saalshen, and found them possessed of warrior spirits. And we have fought with the knights and lords of the so-called Free Bacosh, and found them cowardly. They seek glory in the killing of those that cannot fight back. They fight for gold and land. They ransom opponents for it. Men rise to power amongst them by title and birth alone. They grow fat with self-importance, and little hint of ability or honourable deeds.”
“They are the greatest power in Rhodia,” Koenyg snarled back. “Lenayin shall be great, to be allied to them.”
“Lenayin's honour shall be stained. You speak of power. I speak of tervath. They are not the same, your tongue and mine. Men in Baen-Tar forget.”
Tervath, Damon knew, was the Telochi word for honour and power. In Telochi, they were both the same word, as one flowed from the other. For it to work any other way, to an Isfayen, was not civilisation. There were many elsewhere in Lenayin who felt the same.
“Markan,” said Koenyg, attempting calm reason. “The future of Rhodia is Verenthane.”
“That is not a fact,” said Markan. “That is a choice. Perhaps we choose differently.”
“You are Verenthane.”
“But I am not this kind,” said the Isfayen, with dripping contempt. “Pray that none of us should become so.”