Sasha sat on her chair in the Steltsyn Star, a mug of ale in her hand, and gazed at the blazing coals of the central firepit. About her, the merriment of mealtime continued with music and laughter. She had recited her telling of the ride to Halleryn, which had been met with much applause and shouts of approval from a room crowded full of long-haired, tattooed and ringed Goeren-yai men. But now, while they caroused, she only felt like sitting near the glowing warmth of the fire, and watching the ripple of red and orange across the surface of coals.
Soon, Teriyan dragged a chair and sat beside her, with a head toss to keep his long red hair clear of the chair back. “So Kessligh's got a visitor?” he said. His tone suggested he'd had several ales already…but Teriyan was one man Sasha knew could hold his drink.
She nodded, taking an absent sip. It was her first, and only, ale of the night. Kessligh didn't like her drinking the stuff at all, but she liked to be sociable…more than she liked the taste, in truth.
“His name's Aiden,” Sasha replied, somewhat sourly. “He rode all the way from Petrodor, just to talk to Kessligh.”
“About what, do you know?”
Sasha shrugged. “Nasi-Keth business, I guess. I was booted out of the house before I could hear.”
“Could you be a little more enthusiastic?” Teriyan suggested, taking another pull at his ale. “You'll be heading to Rathynal soon, you'll get to see your Sofy again.” Sasha smiled. “Aha, I thought that would do it. Cheer up, kid, you look like Lynie did when her pet rat died.”
“Lynie had a pet rat?”
“She did until the dog ate it. She nearly killed the poor mutt, never seen a boarhound so frightened.” Sasha grinned, well able to imagine that. “But then she teamed up with you and your horses, hasn't looked at a rat since.”
“I think it's a Goeren-yai thing,” said Sasha. From the other side of the room, there came a roar of triumph—some of the men were playing a game with knives and a throwing board. Another night, and another mood, she might have joined them.
Spirits, she'd loved it when she'd first come to Baerlyn. There were animals here. Kessligh had brought six classy mares with him, gifts from the king's stables, and her new life meant being around them all day. Every morning when she'd awoken within the timber walls of her new home, the horses were waiting for her. And there were the dogs, the two cows, birds in the trees, deer in the woods, the occasional bear, big and small wildcats, and wolves howling at the moon.
Well, she'd not loved it entirely at first. Kessligh had been a hard taskmaster. There were no more servants prying into her life, which was wonderful…but also, there had been no one to make her bed, prepare her meals, set the fire, fetch water, chop wood and all the other small tasks that took her away from her precious horses and important svaalverd work.
There'd also been Kessligh's training. She'd thought it would be fun, at first, for she'd loved training on her own or with Kessligh and Krystoff in the privacy of the empty stables in Baen-Tar. But Kessligh's new routines were far more advanced than the little exercises he'd suggested in Baen-Tar. These included painful stretches every morning and evening, long runs up the hill behind the ranch, and endless, tedious sessions of repeating the same, basic swing over and over and over again.
Soon enough, the little loud-mouth brat princess had begun whining and complaining about her aching shoulders, her blistered hands and the sheer, mind-numbing boredom of not getting to do any real fighting. And she'd been tired all the time, and sometimes ill, and winter had been well on its way. Kessligh had explained, time after time, the necessity of learning the svaalverd's most basic forms until they became as second-nature as walking and breathing. But her tantrums had grown worse, especially in the freezing downpours and howling gales of autumn.
After one particularly hysterical tantrum, Kessligh had dragged her from her room where she'd flung herself on her bed, and sat her down before the fireplace. He'd explained to her, in a very serious way, that if she no longer wished to be his uma, she could always return to Baen-Tar and become a proper princess again. She'd wear dresses, learn manners and etiquette, and practise needlework instead of svaalverd. There'd be no more pain, no more exercises and stretches, no more bruises, strains and blisters. But there'd also be no more horses, no more wide open spaces, no more hiding on the forest ledge along the hillside to spy on the wolfcubs playing before their den. No more spear fishing in the little stream at the bottom of the hill, or swimming in the waterhole beneath the little falls on a warm summer's day. No more crackling log fires in the evenings, and the cabin filled with the sweet smell of burning old pine, a book of serrin poetry on her lap as she slowly unravelled the beautiful triple and quadruple meanings of the Saalsi tongue.
That had been her last great tantrum. Oh, she'd had more minor ones since—far too many to count, in fact. But she'd stretched, and run, and done push-ups and sit-ups until her arms, legs and stomach ached all over, and she would stagger about the stables like a cripple.
Then, one day in midwinter, with the snows piled high on the ground and the trees all gleaming with icicles, Kessligh had taken her down to Baerlyn for a special occasion. It had been Midwinter's Day, her very first in Baerlyn. The locals had gathered for a great feast outdoors, as the weather had been chilled but fine. There had been fires for warmth, and music, dancing and laughter. Everyone was there, men, women and children, and Sasha had been amazed to see that they paid no greater respect or homage to the village councilmen than they did to a poor pig farmer, or to Denys the simpleton, who spoke funny, and laughed far too much, but was never teased for it. Some had even dared jokes at Kessligh's expense—they'd only gotten a smile from him, but a smile was as good as a belly laugh from Kessligh Cronenverdt.
There'd followed contests of swordwork, including limited-contact contests for the children. Sasha had swung her child's stanch through those same old boring, predictable strokes Kessligh had spent so much time drilling her on…and to her amazement, the boys contesting her would meet no firm contact with their wooden blades, and lose their balance, or expose their defences, or fall flat on their backsides as their footing entangled. Not always, of course—often it hadn't worked, and she'd get a belting for her faults. But if she did it just right, and concentrated as hard as she could…well, the boys had protested, fumed and sulked, but they could not deny her ability. Some of them had simply shown respect, including some of the older men who'd ruffled her hair and told her she was good. It had given her a feeling she'd never known she'd craved so badly until that moment. Pride, and belonging. In that moment, it had truly dawned on her that she could never go back to the life she'd once had. She was no longer a princess of Lenayin. She was Sashandra Lenayin, uma to Kessligh Cronenverdt, of the Nasi-Keth.
She'd never complained of Kessligh's training techniques since. Slowly the exercises had become less painful, the runs less exhausting, and the blisters had grown over with hard callouses. Lynette had become a permanent feature at the stables, and then Andreyis. She'd begun to know the townsfolk and their children better. She had had fights and made friends, had played seek and chase along the dusty lanes and been scolded by the women for riding one horse or another too fast through the town. She'd been born in Baen-Tar, in the great royal palace of Lenayin, but this, Baerlyn, village of Valhanan province, was her home.
Jaegar dragged a chair across to sit opposite, his back to the fire and a plate of roast meat and vegetable raal on his lap. “Greetings all,” he said, “sorry I missed the tale. Upwyld filled me in. Most impressive.”
“And where were you?” Teriyan challenged his village headman and good friend. “When our girl was standing on the table, pouring out her latest great glory to we mere mortals?”
“Rony has a light fever,” Jaegar explained, utterly unruffled, taking a big mouthful. “Took her to see Cranyk. He gave her some foul-smelling serrin stuff. Rony wouldn't eat it. From there, it became a grand battle.”
Sasha and Teriyan grinned. Rony was Jaegar's youngest daughter, now four years old. Jaegar had four girls, no boys, and contempt for anyone who thought that made him unlucky.
“Who won?” Sasha asked.
“Well I'd like to claim a great victory over the forces of darkness,” Jaegar admitted, taking his cup from the floor to wash down a mouthful, “but in truth, it was a brutal, bloody draw. Rony suffered a spanking, but Sharyn now has to devise a way to bake a flatbread with the damn stuff inside it, so Rony can eat it without noticing the taste.”
“Sweet spirits,” Teriyan groaned, a hand to his face with the agonised expression of a father who sympathised.
“The most devious and stubborn of adversaries, little girls,” Sasha said knowingly.
Jaegar nodded, eating hungrily. “The very worst.”