Now, Lord Elot put hands on his hips and kicked at the dirt. Then gave a rough order, and the men’s swords were sheathed once more. They parted, and the Larosan peasants moved warily forward, staring at Sasha. They inclined heads to her, in thanks.
“Nasi-Keth?” one asked, looking dubiously at the sword on her hip.
Sasha moved her hand from sword to shoulder, where it would normally be were her shoulder not such a mess, and nodded. “Nasi-Keth. Does anyone speak Torovan?”
More wary looks. One nodded. “A little,” he said in that tongue. About them, the Rhodaanis were making to move on once more. “You go…Larosa?”
Sasha nodded. “I am Lenay. I go to my people.” Ah, the man seemed to say, his mouth forming that silent word. “Why do you go to Rhodaan?”
“Some Larosan…” he searched for the right word. “Frighten? Yes, frighten of Rhodaan. Frighten of serrin. But we?” He pointed at his comrades. “We not frighten. We know serrin good. Rhodaani good. Larosan lord, bad. Bad men, they beat us, they kill us. They take our woman. We fight for Rhodaan.”
“You fight with the Steel?” Sasha asked dubiously, looking at their makeshift weapons.
“No,” said the Larosan, a little sheepishly. “Steel great warrior. We not great warrior. But we know Larosan land, Larosan lord, Larosan men, Larosan horses…” he ticked off his fingers, eyebrows raised at her, inviting comprehension.
“Ah,” said Sasha. Not long ago, she would have wished him luck. Now, she only wanted to be with her people. She nodded, and stood aside. The men bowed again, and made their way into the undergrowth.
Soon, at another pause along the riverbank, Lord Elot brought his horse to her side. “The border has long been crossed by the likes of them,” he said darkly. “Some serrin make contact with peasants nearby, and buy their loyalty with medicines and the such.”
It was the same two centuries ago, Sasha knew, across the border between Saalshen and Rhodaan. As the peasants had come to like the serrin better than their own lords, the lords had become more and more fearful. That had led to more hateful speeches against the serrin by the priesthood, and so on, and so forth. Hatred and fear, the two sides of the coin of power.
“Why don’t more Larosan peasants come to Rhodaan?” she asked.
“Like he said, most believe the priesthood,” Elot replied. “Others will not come if they cannot bring their entire families, for those remaining will be treated badly. And in truth, few Rhodaanis encourage contact with Larosa. Some serrin doing so have got into trouble. It makes instability, like the last time, between Rhodaan and Saalshen. Most Rhodaanis want fewer wars, not more. So they leave most Larosan peasants to their superstitions of serrin demons and corrupted souls across the border, in the hope the lords and priests will not get too upset, and start another war.”
“Didn’t work,” Sasha observed. Lord Elot said nothing.
Finally arriving at a suitable location, they crossed the river with no further troubles. By midnight, they had emerged from the forest and were riding across moonlit fields. This is Larosa, Sasha thought, gazing about. At first, it did not look particularly different.
Then, as they found a narrow trail between fields, they passed a small village tucked between a narrow strip of trees and a lake. There were no pretty stone walls and painted window shutters here. This village huddled close, with mud walls and thatched roofs, surrounded by small animal enclosures. Beneath a full moon on a warm late spring night, all seemed well enough. But Sasha wondered at the winters, when the ground turned to mud and those narrow walls struggled to hold the chill winds at bay. About the village, lands lay unused, perfect for villagers to expand their animal pens or plant a new patch of greens. Sasha knew very well what fate awaited them should they try.
Soon, a castle came into view. There was a village nearby, and sheep in the fields beside the road. Even from this distance, Sasha could see banners hanging above the main gate. It seemed somehow sinister, a hulking stone block upon the Larosan fields. Years of warfare in Lenayin had led to some walled cities, yet castles remained unknown. Now, more strongly than at any time since she’d left Lenayin eight months ago, Sasha truly felt that she had arrived in a strange and alien land.
Kessligh and Rhillian walked down a moonlit street in the heart of wealthy, feudalist Tracato. Five more Nasi-Keth walked with them, but it was little more than show. If the feudalists wanted them dead, so it would be. They walked at the heels of a pair of armed city men, and took some relief in the night’s normality. From the nearby docks came the clanging of a bell.
“Thank you for not sending pursuit after Sasha,” Kessligh said to Rhillian.
“She was too long gone when I found out,” Rhillian replied. “I could not have caught her.” There was no accusation in her tone.
“Thank you all the same.”
“I am unhappy about it,” Rhillian continued. “She is only one blade, but she has skills in generalship, and a following amongst some of the Goeren-yai. If she rallies them, Lenayin could grow stronger.”
“There was nothing I could do,” Kessligh said quietly. Rhillian flicked him a sideways stare that suggested she disagreed. “I have never seen her like this.”
“I saw her,” said Rhillian. “She suffered.”
“It’s not just the pain.” The harbour came into view, down the road between rows of buildings. “She doubts.”
“You fear you have lost her. You brought her here to see your vaunted Nasi-Keth, and the grand future of humanity that you promised. Neither has made a good impression. Her foundation is gone, her hope for the cause, her belief in you. She runs to her people because they are her last remaining foundation. Save for Errollyn.” That last with an unpleasant, dry irony.
“She leaves Errollyn because she won’t force him to fight his own people,” Kessligh replied, edgily. “He would have followed her. He follows her too much, she knows that. She will find it difficult enough herself, to fight on that side, she would not inflict it upon Errollyn.”
“Human emotion is a fickle thing. Humans change on a whim.”
“Serrin too,” said Kessligh. “You used to be a nice girl.”
“Petrodor changed that,” Rhillian said bitterly. “You did not mind your tongue on my failings there. Now you play precious.”
The guiding pair of cityfolk turned down a dark, narrow lane. Soon they came to a nondescript door, and knocked a rhythm on the wood. A panel slid back, a password was given, and the door creaked open. The corridor beyond was narrow and gloomy, leading to a ramshackle courtyard beneath an open sky. Beyond the courtyard, a wide door led to a kitchen, grain and flour scattered about, signs of breadmaking, trails leading to a clay oven in the courtyard.
Two more city men awaited in the kitchen, blades drawn. Kessligh judged from their posture that they were ex-Steel, probably officers. A further door opened, and a small figure was ushered into the kitchen. There came barely enough moonlight through the windows for Kessligh to see his plain city clothes and longish hair about a slim, fine-featured face. The boy came forward on his own, to stand between the two big guards. Kessligh’s five Nasi-Keth remained in the courtyard, all armed, as were he and Rhillian. It would not matter. Rhillian’s upward glances told him that her serrin eyes had found archers in the courtyard windows. Crossbowmen, no doubt, and numerous. The corridors were too narrow for great swordplay, swinging the advantage back in the favour of Steel-trained men with no need for flourishing strokes. This was a death trap, should their invitees wish it to be.