ONE OF KRAYLISS'S MEN ARRIVED the next morning as Sasha went about giving Peg a groom and wash. With the Taneryn man was little Daryd.
“Best you take him now, M'Lady,” said the man, a lean Goeren-yai with his hair in many braids, but with no spirit-mask. He seemed edgy as he pushed aside the stall gate, casting a final glance each way up the hall. “We're being watched. The lad drew no special mention through the gates, we said he was M'Lord's nephew, but surely someone would notice that we don't talk to him, or that he doesn't listen.”
“Aye,” Sasha said, placing a hand on the boy's shoulder. “We'll just hope no one wants to question the feral princess. It would be a first, in Baen-Tar.”
The Taneryn man gave a wry smile and departed. There was to be a formal welcome to the provinces at Soros Square that morning, with Rathynal proper to start the next day. Things happened slowly in Lenayin, where great meetings were concerned. A holdover, Sasha had heard it said, from the times when Rathynals had taken weeks simply because of all the multiple translations that were required for the discussions.
Sasha took the faintly bewildered, anxious boy to the back of the stable, from where she withdrew a cloth package from the straw beneath Peg's drinking trough. She unwrapped the bundle, to reveal good clothes of about the correct size for a ten-year-old lad. Perhaps Koenyg had been right to reduce access to Goeren-yai servants and staff. These had been delivered by one of Sofy's staff, and only too willing to help, when Sasha had asked. Whether Sofy herself knew, Sasha did not know.
“Here,” she said, laying out the clothes. Daryd, however, was staring up at Peg with disbelief and wonder. The Udalyn, of course, would ride traditional dussieh, with perhaps only a handful of lowlands breeds. And, even for a lowlands warhorse, Peg was enormous.
“Big,” Daryd said, greatly impressed. So that was one word in common with Edu. Or perhaps he'd learned it just now from the Taneryn.
“Very big,” Sasha agreed. “His name is Peg.” And when that drew confusion, “Sasha,” pointing at herself. “Daryd,” pointing at him. “Peg.”
Daryd's eyes widened. “Peg?” he asked. “Peglyrion?”
Sasha blinked at him, surprised…until she realised that that, too, was most likely a northern tale in origin. She'd named Peg for the northern star that formed the sword hilt in the constellation of Hyathon the Warrior. That was an old legend, far predating even Tullamayne—Hyathon had named his sword Peglyrion, for the child stolen from him by the dark spirits.
“Peglyrion,” Sasha murmured. “Son of Hyathon.” As if hearing his name mentioned, Peg lifted his great black nose from his trough, and stretched toward Daryd…Sasha put a hand on the boy's shoulder, but Daryd did not flinch. Extended his hand for Peg to sniff. Peg, of course, was fine with children. In his experience, children meant treats. And Daryd, who had surely never seen an animal even half Peg's size before, was remarkably brave.
“Peglyrion,” Daryd breathed, as Peg snuffled curiously at his fingers. Sasha ruffled the boy's hair.
“We've a little time yet,” she said. “Dress first, then you can help me groom him.”
Sasha and Daryd attracted little attention as they walked the back lanes of Baen-Tar. Daryd stared up at the stone walls around him as they walked, his stride a little awkward in his new, leather boots. His new clothes fitted him well enough and with his longish, light-brown hair brushed into some kind of order, he looked very much the makings of a handsome young man. He found everything extremely strange, that much was clear. Yet if he was greatly frightened, it did not show, and he walked with the air of someone with important business. It was the first that Sasha had seen of the vaunted Udalyn spirit. She was not disappointed.
They arrived at the end of a lane and directly opposite loomed the palace, three storeys of grand, arching windows, and intricate stonework. Sasha cautioned Daryd to remain in the shadow, while she peered each way about the corner…there was street traffic, mostly groundsmen or tradesmen, and the clattering of a mule-drawn cart. Opposite and to the right were the great, rounded steps leading up to the main entrance. Further still, on this side of the road, were the even grander, square steps of the Saint Ambellion Temple.
Sasha pulled up the hood on her cloak—it was not a cold day, with sunlight spilling between broken clouds, but it would not look too suspicious given the gusting wind. She gestured to Daryd to leave his hood down. He, after all, was not the one who would be recognised. She then took a deep breath, grasped the boy's hand and walked around the corner.
Ahead, several Royal Guardsmen had stopped to talk in the middle of the road. None looked at her or the boy as they passed. From ahead, out of sight beyond where the road bent about the great temple onto Soros Square, there came the ringing of trumpets and the echo of drums. An audible cheer from a large gathering. There were no nobles on the streets because they were all at the ceremonies. It was well, then, that she did not look too important…
She ascended the great temple stairs, scanning up from within her hood to see the four guardsmen at the entrance, two halberds and two swords. Above, Ambellion's four great spires towered against the fast-moving clouds. Daryd nearly tripped on the stairs to see that sight…and Sasha suffered a flash of memory, as a little girl, spinning on the steps whilst staring upward, for that glorious vertigo of motion and dizziness…The tallest structures in Lenayin, they were, pronouncing Verenthane glory to the lands for many folds around.
The near guardsman was Goeren-yai and she stopped before him. “I wish to see the king,” she said evenly.
“Sorry, lad, there's no admittance outside of service. You'll have to wait.” Sasha pulled her hood back a little and lifted her gaze so that the soldier could see his mistake. He frowned…and blinked. Very few men of Baen-Tar knew her face by sight, there were no portraits of her adorning the palace walls. But then, there was only one woman in Baen-Tar who dressed and wore her hair as she did…
“Daughter to father,” she said firmly, “I must see the king.” The guardsman blinked again. Sasha took advantage, grasping Daryd's hand and walking past. The temple's huge doors towered overhead, left partly open to admit one at a time. Sasha went through, Daryd following behind, and progressed straight across the atrium. Guards here stood alert on the stone floor, many-coloured windows spilling light upon vases of blue ralama flowers. Flanking the main doorway ahead, two statues loomed—Saint Ambellion on the right, in flowing robes with a blessing palm upraised, and King Soros on the left, tall and armoured, with a Verenthane star emblazoned on the pommel of his sword.
The main doors were open and the central aisle between pews stretched invitingly ahead. For a moment, Sasha dared to believe that it might indeed be that easy. Then she heard a rattling footstep as a soldier came through the gap behind. “M'Lady! M'Lady, stop!”
From beneath the statues, guards sprang to life, blocking the way with hands on hilts. Others closed in on her side, and the guards from outside closed at her back. Sasha turned to face the man behind, but that man looked over her head. “Lieutenant,” he said. “Sashandra Lenayin, she claims.”
Sasha turned again, this time taking Daryd about with her. The lieutenant stared down at her, eyes narrowed beneath his gleaming helm. Sasha pulled back her hood and met his gaze. “M'Lady,” said the lieutenant. “The king is at prayer.”
“I know,” said Sasha.
“It is a serious thing to disturb the king at prayer.” The lieutenant's face was free of tattoos, but his hair seemed to have a little length beneath the helm. A single gold ring hung in his left ear. Her hope flared. It was not a great display by any means, but she knew from experience that one should never judge the depths of a man's feelings by the nature of his appearance. “With what emergency would you disturb the king's holy contemplation?”
“This boy,” said Sasha, placing her hand upon Daryd's shoulder. The lieutenant's gaze dropped to regard Daryd. Daryd stared upwards, unflinchingly. A good, common lad might drop his gaze, confronted by a man of rank. Daryd's stare was defiant. “He is Udalyn.”
The lieutenant's eyes flashed back to Sasha's, with sharp alarm. She could sense the disquiet her words had caused, in the stiffening poise of the guardsmen. Breathing seemed to cease. “Udalyn,” said the lieutenant.
“A refugee,” said Sasha. “From Ymoth. The Hadryn attacked it barely eight days ago. I would speak with my father, Lieutenant. The boy rode without halt from Hadryn lands day and night for that purpose. He's earned it.”
“Lieutenant,” said one man, in a low, alarmed voice, “we should alert Prince Koenyg.” The lieutenant stared at him, displeasure in his eyes. Beyond him, Sasha caught a glimpse of a priest advancing up the long central aisle, to check on the commotion. The lieutenant seemed unconvinced. He stared back down at Daryd, convictions battling in his eyes.
“Daryd,” said Sasha to the boy, urgently. “Speak, Daryd.” And gestured to her mouth. Daryd spoke, proudly, in a high, clear voice. Complete sentences, precise and formal. The high, stone atrium echoed with foreign Edu vowels, unheard in this place since its construction. For a moment, Sasha fancied that the grim stone statue of her great-grandfather Soros might have flinched for shame.
The lieutenant squatted opposite Daryd and stared the boy in the face. Daryd completed his little speech and stared back, eyes blazing. And the lieutenant, for the briefest moment, appeared to battle against some powerful emotion.
“Go,” he said then to Sasha. “The king's daughter has privileges much unused. Make it brief.”
“But sir!” gasped a soldier. The lieutenant gave him a sharp glare and rose. Sasha fancied that his eyes were a little moist.
“Brief, I say,” he snapped. Sasha grabbed Daryd's hand and edged quickly past. The priest approaching down the aisle changed directions as she marched by, hurrying to keep up.
“M'Lady Sashandra,” he said, cool yet urgent at her right shoulder, “the king is in private chambers. His meditations are deep, he is not to be disturbed.”
“So stop me,” Sasha retorted, striding fast, little Daryd half-running to keep up.
“M'Lady,” said the priest in worried exasperation. His robes were black and plain, and the top of his head was shaved bald, where the rest of his hair was short and straight. A large golden star bounced from a chain about his neck as he strode. He refrained from touching her. Priests and women, Sasha thought sourly. In her particular case, the dislike was mutual.
The temple aisle was long. Many wooden pews crossed the floor beneath an impossibly high ceiling. Coloured windows rowed the walls high above, the morning sun spearing low, angled rays across the stone. The light indeed seemed heavenly, and the temple air hushed and serene. Sasha had not chosen the ways of the Verenthanes, yet even she could feel the awed magnificence in every silent step across the floor. At her side, Daryd stared upward and about in silent incredulity. He made the spirit sign repeatedly. Sasha hoped the priest did not see.
Ahead, an altar rose on a broad stone platform with carved railings. Above were draped two vast curtains of crimson with gold trim upon which there was embroidered the great wooden staff of Saint Ambellion that he had used to walk from Torovan to Lenayin more than three centuries before, and then across all of Lenayin, preaching to those who would listen. Few indeed, it would have been back then, in pagan, Cherrovan-ruled Lenayin.
It was only then that she caught sight of a dark figure kneeling upon the raised space behind the altar, hidden from the central aisle by a lectern. He knelt on a cushion before a pedestal, upon which hung a Verenthane star on a gold chain. Across the wall behind was a huge wooden star, inlaid with gold and silver, and set into the very stone of the wall.
Sasha stopped as the priest scurried about the steps and whispered reverently in the kneeling figure's ear. The figure wore a communion shroud on his head, like a black, silken handkerchief, blocking out the physical world, so that he could focus entirely upon the spiritual. Sasha felt her heart gallop in gathering alarm and dismay. She had not known that her father wore the shroud at prayer. Such things were for the especially devout, and the penitent and fallible.
Torvaal rose, slowly, removed the cloth from his head, and gave it to the priest. Then he backed from the pedestal, head bowed, and straightened, arching his neck as if to stretch stiff muscles, gazing up at the huge, eight-pointed Verenthane star upon the wall above.
“Daughter,” he said, and his voice was clear in the hushed temple air, although he had not spoken loudly. His tone held no anger, only calm. That, at least, was a relief. “You have come to me.”
The priest gestured urgently for Sasha to approach. She did so, clutching Daryd's hand as she rounded the altar steps. She recalled blue blossoms behind the priest at the altar from childhood services. Now there was the neck chain and star. She wondered at the significance.
“My Lord,” she addressed her father, and sank to one knee. Daryd did likewise, shooting her sideways looks to see that he did it properly. Clutched in her own, she could feel his hand trembling.
“Rise, daughter,” said Torvaal. There was a calmness to his tone that had been absent on previous occasions. He seemed almost…content. Sasha's hopes rose dramatically. “How long has it been since you last ventured into this place?”
“A long time, Father.” Torvaal had not yet looked at her. He gazed instead upward, his expression distant. His black beard, she saw in profile, had been recently trimmed. “Twelve years, I would think. Krystoff's funeral.”
Her father drew in a long, deep breath. Sasha wondered if she'd said the wrong thing. “Yes,” Torvaal said quietly. “Yes, that would be the time. The last time that Kessligh, too, was here.”
“Aye, my Lord,” said Sasha. “It would be.”
“It is beautiful, is it not?” Torvaal asked. “Such tranquillity.”
The priest, Sasha noted, had melted away. They were alone in the great temple, herself and her father. And Daryd, who understood barely a word. She had not been in such a circumstance with him perhaps ever, in her entire life. Suddenly, her mouth felt dry. “Very beautiful, my Lord.”
A faint smile seemed to tug at Torvaal's lips. “Such manners. Whenever one of your sisters comes to me in search of some great favour, I hear much the same tone.” Sasha blinked. It was almost humour. She was astonished. “What would you ask of me, daughter mine?”
“That you consider the plight of this boy, my Lord.” Torvaal looked at her for the first time. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if the sight surprised him. Well, perhaps it did.
His gaze slipped down to consider the boy. “He is Udalyn, my Lord,” said Sasha.
Torvaal nodded. “I know,” he said, with a faint weariness. “I heard you from the entrance. Not for nothing do I wear the shroud. The gods are infallible, Sashandra. Yet the more I have attempted communion with their light, the more I recognise my own failings. Even with the shroud, I cannot find peace. The noise of the world penetrates my ears, and the silent enlightenment of heaven eludes me yet.”
“Then you know that Ymoth has fallen, father!” Sasha was unable to keep the urgency from her voice. “Usyn Telgar leads the armies of Hadryn against the Udalyn, against all the instruction of Baen-Tar for the past hundred years! The boy's name is Daryd and he does not know whether his parents are alive or dead! He rode to Baen-Tar to plead with you for their lives, Father, and the lives of his people! Will you order them saved?”
Torvaal took a deep breath. He turned and gazed up at the great Verenthane star upon the wall, gloved hands clasped behind his back. “Such decisions,” he said then, with heavy finality, “are no longer in my hands.”
Sasha stared, incredulous. “Why? You are king! All of Lenayin answers to you!”
The king gave a faint shake of his head. “Daughter, you do not understand.”
“Enlighten me.” Her temper was slipping once more. She knew it was most unwise, yet she could not stop it.
“The gods have chosen,” Torvaal said simply. “The wisdom of the gods is infinite. Once, I had thought that the signs pointed toward Saalshen and the Nasi-Keth. Now, I see that those were not signs, but merely my own delusion. Now, I see clearly that the signs point toward the great brotherhood of Verenthane. It is the gods’ will.”
“It's your will!” Sasha retorted, and took a deep breath, gathering herself. “Father. Father, please. Kessligh always told me of your justice. You know that the Udalyn Valley is the stitch that holds the tapestry of Lenayin together. If that stitch is undone, the tapestry shall unravel entirely. You know this!”
“You are young,” said Torvaal, with hard finality. “Krystoff was your brother, and your love for him was strong. You saw him through a child's eyes—you still do. You never saw the gods’ intent, daughter. You believed your own eyes, and trusted your own judgment, never realising how it could lead you so far astray.
“Krystoff was the king's heir, just as I was my father's. To be the heir is a sacred thing. I was anointed myself, here in this temple, as a child. The archbishop blessed me with the holy water before a gathering of lords from across Lenayin. In that, my fate was bound to the will of the gods. My father's rule was fair and just, and the gods smiled upon him. When your grandfather died, I became king. It was the gods’ will, Sashandra. Such is indisputable.
“Yes, I ruled. I did what I felt was just. I did my best to please the fates.” Torvaal reached with one black-gloved hand to the gold Verenthane star upon the pedestal. There was a sadness on his face. “And yet I failed. My heir was taken from me. Kessligh, Lenayin's saviour from heaven, left my service. And he took my daughter. Sorrows, the old texts say, always come in threes. Bad omens too. The gods’ judgment is irrevocable. I must bow to it.”
He looked at Sasha. The sadness vanished, replaced by cool formality, like a mask. “I am guilty of vanity, daughter. I had a great plan for Lenayin. Yet great plans are for the gods alone, and now, I must pay penance. Koenyg has shown great gifts of command. The north favours him and our lords and captains admire his leadership. The gods intend for Lenayin a new direction, Sashandra. Had they not, they would not have taken Krystoff from me. With Koenyg at my right hand, I shall follow it.”
Sasha stared at him, mouth open in disbelief. Suddenly, the temple air seemed cold. A flash of memory struck her…Krystoff's chambers, filled with morning light from the windows. He had promised her a horse ride, and she'd burst in without knocking as the servants had learned to, and sent a half-naked lady-in-waiting scurrying for the covers. Krystoff, topless and muscular, had leaped from the bed and ushered her into the adjoining room. Sasha recalled his replies to her confusion, the winsome, faintly exasperated smile at her questions that told her she'd stumbled onto some peculiarly adult thing and was out of her depth. And she recalled the gold Verenthane star against his bare chest.
And she stared, now, at the chain and star upon the pedestal. It had been his. She'd rarely seen him wear it. He'd always worn the little bracelet of beads that she'd made for him, in one of the few craft lessons she'd ever paid attention to. And he'd always worn the stylised belt-knife that a visiting serrin, a friend of Kessligh's from Petrodor, had once presented him with. But rarely the Verenthane star, except on formal occasions. Or, perhaps, when bedding Verenthane maidens who needed convincing that the sin would not send them straight to the fires of Loth.
Looking at her father, Sasha felt an emotion beyond her immediate shock, or her more familiar anger. It was pity. Torvaal had lost an heir. He grieved for the loss in the terms of what it had cost him, as a father, as a king, and as a servant of the gods. He recalled Krystoff by this symbol, and placed it in such a position of prominence within the greatest temple in Lenayin. He prayed before it every day, seeking penance for perceived sins.
And yet, this symbol was not Krystoff. Not truly. Not according to one who had known him as she had. The star, to Krystoff, had been like all the formal clothes he had disliked wearing, or all the painfully self-important people he was obliged to greet, and be nice to, whilst muttering rude things about them when none save his delighted little sister could hear. It was pomp and ceremony, and badges of office, all the things that Krystoff had either despised, or found tiresome at best. If one had wished a more fitting tribute to Krystoff, one might have inaugurated a lagand festival in his name…or an annual dance, where dashing young men might pursue the pretty, available girls with a gleam in their eye. This star upon the pedestal was merely a father's projection of his own beliefs and desires.
Sasha's eyes prickled. For a father to grieve for his son was sad. For that father to do so without ever truly knowing who his son had been was tragic.
“And so Lenayin shall be torn to pieces,” she said tightly, “because the king has lost his nerve.”
A dark fire lit in Torvaal's eyes. Fearsome, in a way that another man's anger might not have affected her. Whether that was because he was her king, or her father, she could not guess. “The gods have entrusted in me a great responsibility, daughter,” he said coldly. “As king I represent their will upon this land. Your insults cause me little care, for I am humble. Yet to insult the gods’ will is sacrilege. I shall not allow it, and if you think the gods’ justice shall be less for one of my own flesh and blood, you shall be sadly mistaken.”
From the far end of the temple, there came voices and the approach of heavy footsteps. Soldiers, Sasha knew without looking. Her time had run out. Politeness had not worked. Pleading had not. And her fury was escaping its bounds.
“You hide behind your gods like a coward behind his shield,” Sasha snarled. Torvaal's eyes snapped wide, as if he'd been physically struck. “The responsibility is yours, father! You were chosen! You are the heir to the legacy of great-grandfather Soros! You cannot merely abdicate from your true beliefs when your conviction fails and your grief grows too strong! You fear committing a crime against the gods, well I'll show you a crime—you know this is wrong, you know what the outcome shall be, and still you do nothing!”
Torvaal seemed to tremble. She'd never seen him so angry. For a moment, she thought he might strike her…or try to. Then he turned and strode about the altar's far side to meet the guardsmen who approached down the aisle. Sasha followed him, clutching Daryd, who was staring up at her, and at the approaching soldiers, in increasing alarm.
“Take custody of the boy,” Torvaal told the first soldier who arrived. “Treat him well. Take him to Prince Koenyg, and be discreet.”
The soldier and his partner advanced, at least ten more in their wake. The senior of the two was Goeren-yai. “You stop right there or by the Synnich I'll make you regret it,” Sasha snarled. The man stopped, frozen in his tracks. His junior, although Verenthane by appearance, seemed greatly unnerved by his senior's reaction and also halted, a hand on his sword hilt.
Torvaal rounded on her in fury. “How dare you speak that name in this place!” he demanded, his voice trembling.
“Why?” Sasha demanded. “It is a name known to fully half of your people, and probably more! Your people, Father! Why are their names and words unfit for speech in the halls of Lenay power?”
“You presume to speak of things about which you have no comprehension!”
“I comprehend that you are the leader of your people! I comprehend that the Goeren-yai desire leadership! And what do you give them? An army of Hadryn fanatics to slaughter their kin and lay waste to the most admired, most loved soul of their ancient beliefs! As well rip out their heart and stamp on it! You proclaim to be the leader of all the Lenay people? Well lead!”
“Neis, Sashandra!” It was Daryd, tugging urgently on her arm. His eyes, pleading up at her, were full of fear. “Neis! Neis!” That word was common enough in the northern tongues. He had wanted her to win her father over, not to declare war on him. He turned to stare up at the stunned, motionless soldiers. At the king, churning with silent rage. He ran toward the king, a guardsman quickly leaping between, but Daryd threw himself onto his knees and pressed his forehead to the stones. He spoke no words, perhaps knowing by now their futility. There was only his one, last gesture. Total obeisance. Total desperation.
Torvaal edged the guardsman aside and stared down at the boy huddled at his feet. Emotions battled within his dark eyes. More emotion than Sasha could recall seeing from him in her entire life. For a moment, she thought he might speak to the boy. Might kneel down and raise him to his feet, in a kindly gesture.
“Take him,” the king said instead, quietly. “Be gentle.” The guardsman knelt and raised Daryd to his feet. The boy turned to Sasha before he could be led away. Sasha saw tears in his eyes.
“Rysha,” he begged her. “Rysha.” Sasha nodded, helplessly. Her right hand itched for the sword on her shoulder, but that would do no good here. She stood where she was and watched as a pair of guardsmen escorted the Udalyn lad up the temple aisle, toward the doors.
“You,” Torvaal said darkly to Sasha, “are confined to quarters. The Nasi-Keth shall be without a representative this first day of Rathynal. Be thankful that your punishment is so light.”
Sasha regarded him coldly for a moment. Then she bowed, lingeringly, with something less than polite intent. “My father's mercy is renowned throughout the land,” she said icily. She stalked off, a guardsman joining her on each arm. “Don't bother,” she told them. “I'm quite sure I know the way.”