Was that natural? To recall the experiences of a six-year-old with such detailed clarity? Kessligh had said, only half-seriously, that it stopped her from growing up, so tightly did she clutch to the memories of her past. Sasha had answered that on the contrary, it spurred her to leave that time even further behind. But now, lying in the warm, orange glow of the Star's lordly quarters, she wondered.
She recalled throwing the sheaf of papers out the window, scattering pigeons from the ledge, and papers all over the gardens below. Not being able to do what one chose had seemed a great injustice. Her minders had concluded that she was spoiled, and had determined to make life more difficult, removing more privileges, and increasing the severity of punishments. That had only made her angry. The next time she'd thrown something out of the window, it had been heavy, and she hadn't opened the window first.
Damon, of course, had since challenged her recollections of those times. It had not been all her minders' fault, he'd proclaimed, upon her first visit back to Baen-Tar in four years, at the ripe old age of twelve. He'd been fifteen, somewhat gangling and with two left feet – not an uncommon condition for boys, Kessligh had assured her, and one reason why girls were easier to train. She'd been born wild, Damon had insisted. Wild like a bobcat, breaking things and biting people from the moment she'd learned how to walk. They'd only been trying to stop her from killing someone-most likely herself. And all of it had been no one's fault but her own.
Twelve-year-old Sasha had punched him in the nose.
Whatever the cause of the madness, Krystoff had been the cure. Krystoff, the heir to the throne of Lenayin, with his flowing black hair, his easy laugh, and his rakish, good-humoured charm. Eleven years her senior, the second eldest after Marya, who was now safely married to the ruling family of Petrodor. Sasha suffered a flash of very early memory… hiding behind a hay bale in a barn, watching Kessligh and Krystoff sparring with furious intensity.
Gods she must have been young. She tried to recall the dress-her memory of dresses was particularly excellent, much the same way as a longtime prisoner must surely recall various types of shackles and chains. The frilly, tight-stitched petticoats? Yes, it must have been, she remembered yanking at them beneath her pleated, little-girl's dress, trying to stop them from tugging as she crouched. She'd been five, then, that night in the barn… and it had been night, hadn't it? Yes, she recalled the flickering lamplight and the musty smell of burning oil behind the familiar odour of hay.
But there hadn't been any fire damage to the northern wall in that memory. She'd nearly burned it all down at the beginning of her sixth year, when she'd been caught sneaking and forcibly removed. She'd grabbed and thrown a bale hook in her fury as they'd carried her away, striking a nearby lamp and sending hay bales up in roaring flames. Serrin oil, she'd later learned-long-lasting, but very flammable.
Kessligh had seen that throw, however, and been impressed. That had been about the time Krystoff had begun to take pity on her, taking an interest in one of his sisters at an age when the others, save for Marya, might as well have been invisible. She recalled him entering her room the day following the fire, an athletic and well-built seventeen, and surely the strongest, most handsome man in all Baen-Tar to her worshipful eyes. She'd been crying. He'd asked her why. And she'd explained that she was to be kept under lock and key for a week. No sunlight, save what fell naturally through her bedroom window. No natural things, save the pigeons that squabbled and made silly sounds on her window ledge. No grassy courtyards. No running, and definitely no chance to sneak to the creaky old barn in the old castle and watch the Lenayin Commander of Armies attempt to whip her eldest brother into a respectable heir and Nasi-Keth uma.
Krystoff had melted. And suddenly, in the following days, she was free. He'd promised her that if she just behaved herself, she could come and watch him train that night. She'd been courteous and attentive all through that day, and had performed all her required tasks without so much as fidgeting. Her minders had been incredulous. And Krystoff, true to his word, had found her a nice, high hay bale to sit on and watch proceedings in the barn that evening after dinner… for Krystoff trained twice a day, she'd been amazed to learn, and did many other exercises in between. He was going to be not only heir of Lenayin, but Nasi-Keth, like Kessligh. She had not, of course, grasped anything of the broader significance of this historic fact, nor the disquiet it had surely caused amongst devout Verenthanes everywhere, despite assurances that in Petrodor, most Nasi-Keth were also Verenthanes, and found no conflict between the two. All Sasha had known was that it seemed awfully exciting.
Kessligh, with curious humour, had even shown her some basic footwork when big brother Krystoff had needed a rest. She'd gotten it first go, slippered feet dancing on the dust and loose straw. Krystoff had encouraged her with typically infectious enthusiasm. They'd found her a broomstick, broken the end off and she'd used it for a practice stanch. She'd managed the basic taka-dan first time also-some of which had come from spying, and some from simple inspiration. She'd even gotten the tricky wrist-angle, and how it shifted with different footing. Krystoff had been excited enough to pick her up and spin her about, where another man might have felt slighted, upstaged by his little sister with a broomstick. Very few pupils ever simply "got" the svaalverd first time, not even serrin. Kessligh had just watched, his expression unreadable.
From then on, within the privacy of the barn at evenings, there'd been instruction for Sasha also. Lessons and exercises, too, for her to perform in her room in early mornings, before the servants arrived to fill her morning bath, and dress her in their latest torture contraption, and brush her long, flowing hair. She'd kept that half-a-broomstick beneath her mattress, and when it was found and confiscated, she'd used the fire poker in her room instead. Those exercises had been her wonderful secret-something her minders could never take away-and she'd practised every time she'd found a private moment. Her minders did not approve of Krystoff's increasingly active role in her life, despite her improved behaviour. With improved behaviour had come high spirits, and a happy, rambunctious little Sashandra Lenayin had been every bit the challenge that a sullen, moody one had presented.
They'd been kindred spirits, she and Krystoff. She recalled helping him to raid the kitchens when soldiers just arrived from impromptu exercises were hungry and unhappy at being told to wait until mealtime. Recalled Krystoff flustering the chief cook, and sweet-talking the giggling, blushing kitchen maids, while Sasha had stood on a chair, and loaded loaves of bread and bowls of soup onto trays for the queuing soldiers, who'd grinned at her and ruffled her hair.
Another time, he'd somehow talked the proprietor of the training hall into admitting her-Krystoff had been said to own the knack of talking fish out of water, or chickens into flight. (Or virtuous Verenthane maidens into his bedchambers, many had also said, when they thought she couldn't hear.) There she'd watched athletic Lenay warriors drenched in sweat, pounding each other's defences with utmost confidence and swagger… until they'd come up against Krystoff's svaalverd, and found it like trying to swat a fly from the air with a wheelwright's hammer.
Yet another time, rather naively, he'd introduced her to horses, and his little sister had fallen in love for a second time. Little Sashandra would abandon classes to go wandering around the stables, watching the stable boys and pestering the trainers for desperately coveted knowledge. And when the Royal Guards put on a formation display for a visiting foreign lord… well, no locks nor bars nor solid stone walls could hold her.