The duke's smile disappeared completely. And he nodded, warily. "So. It is true what they say, of your loyalties and tempers both."
"You're yet to see my temper, Duke Stefhan. Pray that this should remain the case."
"Sasha?" came a new, familiar voice. Sasha looked and saw Sofy now come into view, escorted on the arm of one of the Larosa men. Sasha stared, disbelievingly. Sofy's return stare was accusatory. Sofy would not need the present situation explained to her-she could read body language like a book. "Sasha, what are you doing?"
Sasha gestured her forward, sharply. Sofy abandoned her companion's arm with a gracious apology and made her way between the drinking troughs, Duke Stefhan extending a courteous hand to help her through. Sasha took Sofy's arm with a dangerous glare at the duke and dragged her away to the smithy's wall.
"What are you doing with these bastards?" she hissed at her sister, above the continuing clang of hammer on metal. The heat from the fires was intense. "These are the Larosa, Sofy! I've told you about them!"
"Sasha, just once could you meet some new people without starting a fight?" Sofy shook her arm clear of Sasha's grasp, indignantly. "Duke Stefhan is an intelligent and cultured man, if you'd only give him a…"
"The man's a murdering villain, like all the Larosa ruling classes!"
"How do you know?" Sofy snapped. "You've only just met the man!"
"You don't care what they do to the serrin, is that it?" Staring at Sofy angrily. Sofy was supposed to be too smart for this. She couldn't believe that fancy clothes and a funny accent were all it took to dance past her sister's usually excellent judgment. "You don't care about the night raiding parties across the Saalshen-Bacosh border, about the abductions and massacres…"
"Oh, how dare you?" Sofy was really angry now. "How dare you say that I don't care? Of course I care, Sasha, but don't you see? You simply cannot continue to just tar everyone with one brush, I mean, the Larosa can't all be like that! There's so much culture in Larosa, Sasha, and the other Bacosh provinces…
"So what?" Sasha fumed. "There's a lot of culture in Cherrovan too, and a lot of it's wonderful, but I'll be damned if I'm going to walk arm-in-arm with a Blood Tribe Warlord!"
"Not everything's a conflict, Sasha!" Sofy was pleading now. "You're so used to fighting, your whole life. You fought father, and you fought your minders and the holy scholars, and then you fought with Alythia, and then Kessligh and Krystoff taught you swordwork, and then after Krystoff died you fought against the Cherrovan…" She grasped Sasha's arms, lightly. "You have to stop judging people, Sasha! You did it with Damon, and you do it still with father and Koenyg… and if you keep on doing it, you'll find nothing but conflict your entire life!"
"And you have to stop assuming that everyone is gentle and kind until proven otherwise," Sasha retorted. "You're a good-natured person, Sofy, and evil people will take advantage of that if you let them. I've seen the real world. I've lived out there in it, and I've seen what people do to each other. If you truly believe that good tailors and a knowledge of artwork can excuse a man of crimes that heinous, then you're just another pampered, ignorant little palace girl."
Sofy stared at her, eyes wide. And swallowed hard, fighting back emotion. "Well, that's mature," she huffed. "When someone doesn't agree with you, just call them names, as if that solves anything. And you're supposed to be older than me." She turned to sweep away with her nose in the air, pausing briefly to give Sasha's person a disdainful look. "And seriously, Sasha… put something decent on. Even the tolerance of Baen-Tar Verenthanes has its limits, you know."
Sasha watched her leave, broodingly. Alythia gave Sasha a smug look and put a comforting hand on Sofy's shoulder, welcoming her back into the fold as they moved off. Duke Stefhan bowed, mockingly, and followed. Sasha looked about with hands on hips, searching for something she could throw.
Across by the nearest furnace, a Goeren-yai blacksmith dipped a red-hot horseshoe into a bucket of water, which hissed. His arms were huge, rippling with muscle beneath entwining tattoos. He looked at Sasha, beneath long, tangled, sweaty hair. And looked her up and down, lingeringly.
"Don't worry, lassie," he said. "Those clothes look plenty fine by me." And winked at her, cheerfully. Sasha gave him a reproachful look. The blacksmith chortled, withdrew his horseshoe, and resumed hammering. Sasha sighed in exasperation… Goeren-yai men were such idiots, sometimes. Rude, cheerful, irreverent, fearless idiots. And she nearly laughed. Spirits, how she loved them. She stretched, wincingly, for the man's benefit. He grinned, still hammering, evidently with only one eye on his work.
Sasha walked to stroke Peg's nose, an apology for taking so long. "This is why I like horses," she told him tiredly, feeding him a piece of fruit from her pocket. "Relationships are so simple, so uncomplicated." Peg seemed far more interested in the snack than her conversation. "I mean, I know you don't like me."
Peg snorted, and thrust his nose into her hands, searching for more food. Nudged at her pockets, breathing great, horse-smelling breaths all over her. Sasha smiled, and hugged him.
Thirteen
It was cold in the library. Sash sat on her stool before the wide, wood desk, and wrapped herself more tightly with her cloak. The lamp on the table flickered a wan light upon the page before her and a coal brazier gave some warmth to her back. Across the surroundings benches, several figures sat hunched, likewise with braziers and lamps – all men, some scribbling on parchment with a quill tip.
At either end of the vast floor, shelves lay dark and gloomy, groaning beneath their weight of parchment. Books were more trouble than they were worth, she'd often thought in her youth. Only living with Kessligh, scrolling through ancient serrin writings during long evenings before a crackling log fire, had she discovered their wonders.
"It was a female who came before the court, and she wore a sword at her hack like a man, and did move and speak with the authority of a man. Her eyes were a demon blue, and all her soldiers wore a most ungodly aspect. "
Before her lay the writings of a Torovan archivist who had lived in the Larosa court two centuries before. Here lay an eyewitness account of the Larosa court following the disappearance of King Leyvaan's Bacosh army in the hills and forests of Saalshen, and the subsequent occupation of the three Bacosh provinces now known as the Saalshen Bacosh by the serrin.
"The demon said her name was Maldereld, and that by her hand and others were King Leyvaan and his entire force of twenty thousand slain. Lord Sharis was enraged, and would have struck the demon down where she stood."
Why he did not, the text did not say. Perhaps it had something to do with most of the Larosa army having been killed with Leyvaan the Fool, Sasha thought sourly. Larosa had been defenceless, at Saalshen's mercy. Why the serrin had only occupied the three closest of the nine Bacosh provinces, she did not know. They could have spread further and made an empire. But then, maybe that was human thinking. The serrin had little interest in empires. The Saalshen Bacosh now made a wall, behind which Saalshen had been protected for two centuries since.
Echoing footsteps made her turn, with a reach for her sword hung across the chairback. A shadowed figure with one arm in a sling emerged from the doorway, and paused, scanning the room. Sasha straightened, pushing back her hood so that the lamp lit her face… the figure looked her way, then came quickly over between the tables.
Closer, the face resolved itself as Jaryd's, his expression urgent. "M'Lady," he whispered, "please come quickly. I ride on Prince Damon's business."
"Ride?" Sasha frowned… Jaryd did appear to be dressed for riding. "Ride where?"