The foul mood stayed with her all the way down to the Great Hall, along gloomy hallways and flagstone floors. Memories of Krystoff. Her father, Koenyg, Kessligh, Damon, Sofy, herself…they all remembered a different Krystoff, a Krystoff shaped as much by their own personal needs and desires as by any truthful recollection. She'd needed Krystoff for her soulmate. Her father had needed an heir. Koenyg, a competitor to overcome. Kessligh, an uma. To Damon, he'd been yet another overbearing elder brother to measure up to. Perhaps only Sofy could claim any objectivity where Krystoff was concerned. Sofy, who was the most objective person on most things, it seemed.
So how did Sofy do it? Perhaps, it occurred to her, it was because Sofy was not selfish. Sofy did not harbour any great ambitions for herself and did not impose her self-importance upon others.
People saw what they wanted to see, Kessligh always said. They saw the world in terms that would paint themselves in the best possible light and excuse all their flaws, preferably by blaming them on someone else. The Nasi-Keth taught men and women not to be perfect, but merely to know themselves and to know their own wants and desires. Knowing that, a person might begin to understand his or her own prejudices and assumptions, and act against them. Kessligh had never claimed to be perfect, he merely claimed to make an effort. So what about me, Sasha wondered. What do I want? Was she so self-centred that she'd never be able to see the truth? How could she ever know anyone around her if she wasn't even sure of herself? Hells, she didn't even know if she was Verenthane, Goeren-yai or Nasi-Keth. Her own brother had challenged her to declare herself, and she didn't know what to say. Even after the duel at Halleryn, she still did not know. She knew what her heart said. But, in her life, to be ruled entirely by her heart would be suicide.
The day did not improve. After lunch, she did what she usually did when her mood was foul and visited the stables. Horses, she'd discovered, spoke a quiet, foreign language of posture and emotion. After a while immersed in it, she found her very human concerns beginning to fade. This visit, however, she discovered that Peg's right hind hoof was developing a crack about a horseshoe nail, and the shoe would need replacing.
The blacksmith's shop occupied a large, covered area to the stable's rear, facing directly onto the inside of the looming city wall. There were several blacksmiths, in fact, and they were clearly busy, their furnaces roaring, hammers clanging and new, glowing red horseshoes and nails being added to respective piles. Many horses occupied the hay-strewn floor, some worked upon by their riders, others waiting their turn. Sasha found Peg a spot at a water trough, found some tools and went to work.
Peg hated blacksmiths and holding his huge leg still was no easy thing. The nails came out with difficulty. The heat from the fires was intense, and the day was warming, so she removed her bandoleer and sword, then the jacket and long-sleeved outershirt. The short-sleeved undershirt was too loose at the waist and hung out when she bent, so she gathered the hem into two tight fistfuls and tied them in a knot beneath her breastbone, leaving her midriff bare.
She was starting on the third nail when she heard female voices coming along the row of horses, raised above the clamour of hammers. Baen-Tar ladies came to the stables often enough to admire the horses. There were male voices too—of course, she thought dryly, a true lady would require an escort. Peg tried to move his leg once more and she gripped it firmly between her knees.
“A little patience, please?” she asked him loudly, repositioning the nail. Peg snorted.
“Oh, look at that big black!” she heard then from the approaching ladies. “Isn't he gorgeous!”
Great, that was all she needed. She got the nail head in and started hammering. The hammer was heavy, but gave no real trouble to a swordfighter—as always, it was a question of rhythm, balance and timing. No sooner had the nail gone all the way in than there was a female voice directly behind her, coming from Peg's front.
“Excuse me? Rider? Could you tell me this horse's name and his owner?”
Sasha sighed, dropped the hoof and hammer, and turned to face them. “His name's Peglyrion,” she said shortly. “I'm his owner.”
The young ladies before her gasped in shock. They wore dresses of the Torovan fashion, one predominant colour with embroidered trimmings offset with an opposing-coloured sash tied at the waist. Some wore their hair done up with curls and combs, others straight and long down their backs. There were five immediately present, and one in particular, in a red gown with green sash and silver jewellery, was staring at her with contemptuous disbelief.
“You!” exclaimed Alythia. The sisters locked stares. “Good lords, Sashandra, you really have no shame at all, do you? Look at you! You're dressed like a…like a…”
“Like a woman trying to shoe her horse?” Sasha offered.
“Like a disgrace! Have you no respect for local sensibilities?”
“None,” Sasha said bluntly. “Now, are you just going to stand there and hurl insults, or can I get back to my horse?”
One of the ladies murmured something to her companions, who giggled. They eyed Sasha's bare, sweaty arms and hard stomach with scandalised disbelief.
Alythia's dark eyes blazed. “Have you any idea of the number of people you've managed to offend?” she exclaimed. “To say nothing of Father, disgracing his name in this…this appalling fashion…”
“Father is both man and king enough to speak for himself,” Sasha said darkly, “he does not need you to do his complaining for him.” Sometimes Alythia worked her temper to boiling. But today, somehow, she just couldn't be bothered. It was all too predictable, too tiresome and far, far too silly. “Alythia, I'm really not interested. Enjoy your little day's outing, try not to step in anything foul…”
She was about to turn her back when a new figure appeared, escorting another lady. The man wore a dark jacket with bright silver embroidery, and pants that puffed out at the thighs before tapering to tight, slender calves and boots. He wore a slim sword at the hip with a fancy silver handguard, and a wide-brimmed hat upon his head…with a feather in it, no less. His goatee was neatly trimmed, and dark curls fell about his neck. Several other men in similar dress followed, each escorting another lady.
Bacosh, Sasha realised. Irritation at her prissy sister quickly vanished.
“Ah,” said the man, seeing Sasha. “This must be the Lady Sashandra. Princess Alythia, would you mind ever so much for a formal introduction? I have heard…so many things…about your sister.” The accent was very smooth and melodious, and ever so charming. The dark eyes, however, felt…cold. The smile, Sasha thought, did not touch those eyes. An older man, perhaps nearer to fifty than forty, though well-hidden beneath makeup and hair dye.
“Certainly, Duke Stefhan,” Alythia said primly. “Sashandra, this is Duke Stefhan of the Larosa province of the Bacosh. Duke Stefhan, Sashandra Lenayin, my sister.”
The duke stepped past the water trough and reached for Sasha's hand. Sasha seriously considered withholding it. But that was needless provocation. They were only formalities. She extended her hand and repressed a shudder as the duke grasped it lightly and placed it to his lips. His grip lingered, unpleasantly. Possessively.
“M'Lady Sashandra,” said the duke. “Your fame precedes you. Even in my nation, we have heard tales of your exploits.”
“In my nation too, we have heard tales of yours,” Sasha said coldly.
The duke smiled. “They say that you fight like the serrin ladies. If any serrin can truly be said to resemble a lady.” With a flashing smile at the ladies present, who laughed obligingly.
“After your armies are through with them,” Sasha replied, “I doubt they could be said to resemble anything.”
That provoked the first response from the duke's eyes yet—a slight widening beneath the hat's brim. A flash of recognition. “How true,” he replied. Slyly, almost mockingly. “But do not feel too sorry for them, my Lady. They have no souls, you know.” And he lowered his voice, with a glance behind, as if concerned someone back there would overhear. “That is why they try to steal our souls, you know. They lack their own.”
It took every measure of Sasha's fragile restraint to keep her from smashing his smug, arrogant face with her fist. He knew which Larosa exploits she referred to. He found it amusing. Torture, rape and mass slaughter. And her father and Koenyg wanted Lenayin to go to war, and fight for men like this, against the serrin? Even in retaliation, the serrin had only ever killed soldiers and those who commanded them. All of those soldiers, it was true…but then who could blame them?
“Have a care, Duke Stefhan,” Sasha said quietly. “You must still return home, through Goeren-yai lands. Many Goeren-yai think highly of the serrin. And some Lenay Verenthanes also accuse the Goeren-yai of lacking souls…Perhaps, were you to see what they do to men who attack their friends, you might understand why.” And she smiled, dangerously. “Perhaps you shall. Should someone who knows your route send word to them.”
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.