But the slow going cost them time, and they stopped for the evening in a little ridge-top village some distance short of where they had hoped to be. Their guides insisted the inn was safe, but the serrin took their meals in their rooms regardless, and did not wander out. Descending the stairs with empty plates, Sasha saw Rulsten and the innkeeper in a corner, talking in hushed tones. Word was there had been Stamentaast through this way just two days before, asking questions.
That night, Sasha shared a room with Yasmyn. Before sleeping, they sat for a while on the balcony and looked up at the silver outlines of mountains bathed in moonlight.
“If we are to die here,” said Yasmyn after a long while, “then it shall be a good place to die.”
Sasha smiled.
The next day was long. They passed through several more towns, a few of them showing signs of surprising wealth for such isolated settlements. In all Ilduur's history, Rulsten explained as they rode, this had been the most hostile border, and wars against one Enoran lord or another had been relatively common. The Enoran lords were now all dead, and their line decisively ended by angry Enoran peasants, but not all Ilduuri had made their peace with the naach ul tremich stoov, or “tyrants of the north,” as Enorans had once been known here.
The question of night lodging provoked some debate. Rulsten knew of a village, but Rhillian did not like to risk the Stamentaast's spies. They settled for camping by the trail, in a shallow valley with a small, cold stream. However nice a genuine bed might be, Sasha was glad for the chance to practise taka-dans away from the prying eyes of townsfolk, and to wash away from common stalls.
This night, Arendelle propositioned Yasmyn rather than Sasha. Yasmyn accepted. Afterward, Sasha made a bed at Yasmyn's side, rugged up against the welcome night chill.
“Good?” she asked Yasmyn.
“Interesting,” Yasmyn replied. She looked thoughtful. “My first since the rape.” Sasha nodded. She'd thought as much. “I wanted to know that I still can.”
“And?”
“Yes,” she said, with neither excitement or relief. “That is no surprise. I am Isfayen.”
“I heard a tale once from women in Baerlyn,” said Sasha, “of another woman who had been raped, and had never been able to enjoy lying with a man again.”
“It was bad,” Yasmyn admitted. “But I've seen men die by the sword. I've dealt men wounds that had them screaming as they tried to stuff their guts back into their bodies. I've severed heads, and seen the severed heads of friends. This injury was not the worst I expected to take. Besides which, his head was one of those I severed.”
“I feel sorry for that woman in the tales I heard,” said Sasha. “If I could not take revenge with my blade, I would probably never be able to lie with a man again either.”
“The fate of women is terrible,” Yasmyn agreed. “I think that Rhillian is right, that all human action comes from the need for power. But she thinks it a bad thing. Like you, I think it is the only reason I am sane. Had I not had my revenge, I would be shrivelled and dead inside.”
“We are different people, human and serrin,” Sasha murmured. “The rare ones like Rhillian and Kiel seek power, but do not need it, as humans need it. I'm quite certain Rhillian could find many purposes in life if she could no longer fight, and be happy with that. Probably I could too, but I'd be miserable.”
Yasmyn frowned. “But serrin do not have the expectation of fighting that humans do. It is a rare thing for them-they do not fight each other, only us. So there is no need for power, when none amongst them seeks it over others.”
“It should sound wonderful, shouldn't it,” said Sasha. “To live in a world free from violence and pain should be the ideal of all. But I am a Lenay warrior and I honestly think I'd die of boredom.”
Yasmyn grinned. Sasha gave a snort of reluctant laughter and gazed up at the stars.
“The gods and spirits make us who we need to be,” Yasmyn said with certainty. “We are both born to war, so we need to be warriors. Serrin are born to peace, so they need to be peaceful. Neither should feel ashamed of what we are, any more than a wolf should feel shame at killing deer. Wolves are wild, like Lenays.”
“And is that why humans resist serrin attempts to civilise them?” Sasha wondered. “Because we are all wild animals, and cannot accept serrin domestication?”
“Perhaps,” said Yasmyn. “But wild animals live as the spirits intended. I think it is the serrin who are the odd ones. Perhaps they need to change to be more like us.”
“And what if they can't?”
“Then they will die,” Yasmyn said sombrely. “They cannot fight war with peace, any more than they can hunt bear with sticks.”
They lay in silence for a moment. Sasha glanced around her and found Rhillian lying close by, propped on an elbow, watching them. She'd heard every word, and her eyes in the night were bright and hard. Sasha smiled sadly, and rolled to reach for Rhillian's hand. Rhillian grasped it and looked at those fingers, as though considering something of great import. Then she sighed and lay down to sleep.
The next morning, returning from her toilet stop, Sasha sensed movement and spun to find a large, black-striped mountain cat not ten paces from her. It was impossibly beautiful, with big golden eyes and wide whiskers, big paws, and a long tail for balance on the steeper slopes. It stared, even more surprised than she, but not especially alarmed. Sasha stared back, wanting to call others to come and look, but unable to do so lest she scare her visitor away.
Eventually the cat left and Sasha returned to camp and told the others what she'd seen.
Rulsten was astonished. “Black stripes, you say? They're very rare, they steer well clear of people usually. It wasn't frightened?”
“Not frightened at all. I think she knew I wouldn't hurt her.”
“The wild and dangerous spirit attracts the wild and dangerous animals,” Yasmyn said knowingly, “and each knows the other for a friend.”
Rhillian and Kiel looked at each other, expressions unreadable, and said nothing.
By afternoon they found themselves beneath an enormous, towering spire of a mountain.
“Aaldenmoot,” Rulsten named it. “Dragon's Tooth. Thirty people have been known to try to climb it over the centuries. None have succeeded. Half of them died.”
“Why climb it at all?” Kiel wondered. “There's nothing there save a higher view.”
“Ilduuri climb,” said Rulsten with a shrug. “For lookouts, for signals, for manoeuvres by our soldiers to outflank our enemies. Climbing is an art, and any art must be practised.”
Kiel looked unconvinced.
From the valley's end, the trail rose sharply. Soon the party had dismounted to lead the horses, as some stretches of trail became almost as steep as stairs, and the horses progressed reluctantly indeed.
Ahead, the high passes were covered with golden snow. A descent in the evening across a high, barren snowfield brought them to a mountain lake, wide, glassy-still, and impossibly blue. By its bank stood a cabin with a stable, large enough for a party twice their size.
It was empty, placed here for travellers crossing the pass, Rulsten explained. They made themselves at home, and found it warm enough once the fire was crackling with logs from the large supply of firewood that must have been brought up by cart.
No sooner had they eaten, than they heard hooves crunching the snow outside, then a knock at the door. All inside looked at each other and drew weapons. Rulsten gestured them to calm, went to the door, and opened it.
There in the fading twilight stood a man with a flaming torch, cloaked against the oncoming chill of evening. He exchanged Ilduuri greetings with Rulsten, extinguished his torch, and stomped his boots free from snow on the step before entering.