“Duul,” said Daryd, drawing a half circle in the dirt with his knife. “Wall,” Sasha had gathered that meant. About the fire, Teriyan, Andreyis and Sofy watched as the markings on the earth increased to form a map of the town of Ymoth. “Duul as tarachai,” jabbing at where the half-circle ended, and made a wavy line with his knife where the rest of the circle would have been.
“Uncompleted,” Sofy surmised. “They only have half a wall.”
“Aye, but it's facing the right way—onto the fields,” said Teriyan, firelight turning his long red hair to dancing orange. He pointed with a long stick to the town's unprotected side. “These are hills, yes?”
Daryd frowned. “Oh, hold on,” said Sofy, as if searching her memory. “I know that one…um…fen, that's right. This fen?” With a motion of her hands, outlining a hill.
Daryd nodded vigorously. “Ennas fen, sa. Fen, fen, fen,” indicating with his knife all the way alongside the dual marks that described the banks of the mighty Yumynis River.
“Can't attack from behind,” Sasha observed. “We'll have to come along the fields. An open charge.”
“Why would they only have half a wall?” Andreyis wondered.
“Krayliss said the Udalyn only moved back into Ymoth recently,” said Sasha. “It must have lain abandoned for nearly a century, too far from the valley to be safe for the Udalyn, but too close to the Udalyn to be safe for Hadryn to occupy. The lands there are fertile, it must have been tempting. But now, it seems they could not defend it.”
They gazed at Daryd's little map in the firelight. About them was a much grimmer camp than Sasha had seen before. Men made no laughter and song about their fires and little conversation. Mostly they ate, or tended to kit or weapons, or saw to their horses, now haltered to trees in small groups wherever wild grass grew. All had drunk at the last stream crossed, and now the camp lay strewn along a winding ridgeline, easily defensible from either end, and most certainly from the steep slopes to either side.
After some further discussion, Sofy excused herself to go and sit at the neighbouring fire where Jaryd sat with his leg stretched out with Captain Tyrun and some other senior officers. Sasha saw her sit beside Jaryd, who barely registered her arrival. Sofy had been talking to Jaryd on and off along the ride, and Jaryd, unable to wield a sword and hold the reins at the same time, and thus unable to fight from the front of the Falcon Guard, had seemed to appoint himself her protector. Daryd then excused himself to go and check on Essey, whom he was clearly very attached to. Rysha remained behind, content to gaze into the fire with her big brown eyes, wrapped in a man's cloak a good four times too large. Sofy, Sasha noted, was walking somewhat gingerly. Her saddle soreness was surely terrible, Sofy had only sat ahorse a handful of times before in her life. But she did not complain.
“Ah, you'll have to be faster than that, lad,” said Teriyan to Andreyis, eyeing Jaryd and Sofy. “That blue-blood boy, he's a slick one. Have the ladies eating out of his hand in no time…you'll have to make your move faster if a skinny village lad's to have any chance at all…”
“Shut up,” Andreyis told him in irritation, staring into the fire. Teriyan raised his eyebrows in characteristic mirth. “She's a Verenthane princess, I wasn't thinking that at all.”
Sasha repressed a smile. “Ah aye,” Teriyan said slyly, “I'm sure that fleeting vision of a crown on your head at the grand wedding never even happened, not for a moment…”
Andreyis glared at him. “Teriyan,” Sasha reprimanded. “Leave him alone.”
Teriyan chortled. Rysha was humming the notes to a song, uncomprehending of the conversation. She looked exhausted, her eyelids flickering. Sasha recalled the comb she'd put into her pocket with forethought. She brought it out and gestured to Rysha. Rysha came without question, gathering her enormous cloak so as not to trip, and sat cross-legged before Sasha. It pleased her that the little girl with whom she could barely communicate, and who had every reason to be frightened of foreigners, showed such complete trust.
“I hope they're worth it,” Andreyis said glumly. Broke a twig and tossed it on the flames. “The Udalyn, I mean.”
Sasha frowned at him. “Do you doubt it?” she asked, taking the ralama flowers from Rysha's hair and handing them to her.
“Well, no one's ever met one, have they?” Her young friend seemed suddenly gloomy, gazing at the fire. “An adult, anyhow. What if they're all bastards?”
“You think bastards could have raised a little girl like Rysha? Or a boy like Daryd?”
Andreyis shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe. Half of Baerlyn thinks my father's a bastard, but I turned out okay.” And, “Don't say anything,” when he saw the cheap shot forming on her lips.
“All of the stories about the Udalyn suggest otherwise,” Sasha said firmly. Freed from its three wooden pins, Rysha's brown hair fell in folded tangles. The comb was deer bone, finely carved and strong. Rysha winced as it caught at a tangle, still humming softly. “They've an eye for fine craftsmanship and a love of green things. Tharyn Askar was not only a great warrior, it's said he grew sunflowers.”
“Oh aye, that's a real recommendation,” Andreyis replied, poking the coals with another stick. “They're just stories, anyhow. Old Cranyk tells stories of the scores of Cherrovan warriors he's slain, and the great size of the bucks he's hunted…”
“To say nothing of the size of his cock,” Teriyan added.
Andreyis nodded sagely. “Exactly. A shrivelled little thing, I'm sure. Who can tell which stories are true? People love to love the Udalyn. When people want to love something that much, they'll believe it whether it's true or not. Especially when it's useful to them. Look at the capital Krayliss got from everyone loving the Udalyn.”
Sasha sighed, thinking as she worked. The comb caught at a hard tangle and Rysha complained in Edu. “I don't know, Andreyis,” Sasha said tiredly, taking a handful of hair below the tangle and yanking hard. It wasn't so different from combing horses, really. “Kessligh says you can believe in everything, or you can believe in nothing, but neither path will grant more truth than the other. All we can do is trust our sense. My sense tells me the Udalyn deserve to be saved. I might be wrong, but…” she shrugged. “We'll find out when we get there.”
Teriyan made a face. “It's irrelevant anyhow,” he said.
Sasha paused her brushing to frown at him. “You think?”
“Whether people are right to love the Udalyn or not, it's irrelevant,” Teriyan said with certainty. “The fact of the matter is they do, for better or ill. And if the Udalyn were to all be slain, people would be angry enough to do all sorts of nasty things to the people they deemed responsible for many generations to come. We either stop that, or we don't. Arguing over whether it's all sensible or not is like arguing whether it's sensible for rain to fall, or the seasons to change. They just do. Deal with it.”
Rysha patted Sasha's knee impatiently. Sasha resumed brushing, with a final, incredulous look at Teriyan. “Aye, well that's high-minded idealism, isn't it?”
“It's survival,” Teriyan said firmly. “Hard to be a Goeren-yai romantic when there's no Goeren-yai left. And equally hard to be a Lenay patriot when Lenayin's been split to pieces.”
“Aye,” Sasha conceded, reluctantly.
“Aye!” Rysha agreed loudly. Another Lenay word. And she giggled when they all looked at her. Teriyan grinned at her, and winked. Rysha considered her handful of flowers, coyly.
Sasha lost patience with an especially nasty little tangle, and quietly removed a knife from her belt so Rysha could not see, and cut it. Rysha hummed her tune, oblivious, as she had doubtless sat and hummed many times before, as her mother, sister or cousin had performed this task for her. The tune sounded strangely familiar. Sasha wondered if the Udalyn sang the same songs and knew the same tales that she'd come to love growing up in Baerlyn.
Soon Daryd returned, and Rysha began to doze. Sasha decided she'd best let Daryd tell the officers what he'd told her. She gave Rysha to Teriyan and the girl snuggled sleepily against the big man's side. Teriyan put an arm around her and gazed into the flames, reminding Sasha of many evenings at the Steltsyn with Lynette's head resting against him.
A Wildcats lieutenant made a space for her and Daryd upon a fireside log. Jaryd sat alongside on his saddle, his left leg outstretched, Sofy beside him. Conversation halted and Sasha encouraged Daryd to show them his map of Ymoth, drawing in the dirt by the fire with his knife. Men asked questions, gazing thoughtfully at the map. Jaryd only stared at Daryd, with more expression in his eyes than Sasha had seen since Baen-Tar.
Daryd was of a similar age to Tarryn, Sasha realised. Perhaps a little taller than the boy she remembered sitting on Jaryd's bedside. And a little leaner, with light brown hair instead of sandy, and no freckles. But, in the flickering orange firelight, it seemed that memory conspired with shadows to contrive a similarity. Tears wet Jaryd's eyes, then rolled down the inflamed, red wound on his cheek.
At first, none noticed but Sasha and Sofy. Sofy looked anguished, but Sasha shook her head faintly. It would not do for a man in grief to receive comfort from a woman before his peers. Such comfort was for children, not for men, and Sofy seemed to know it. Then the other men noticed, one after another, and conversation faded. Men stared silently into the flames and continued sharpening weapons, or sipping drinks, or mending gear, as they had been before. Jaryd's tears caused no awkwardness, no embarrassment, not even as he struggled to contain the sobs that threatened to rack his body. The officers simply waited, with quiet respect, for the moment of grieving to pass.
Daryd looked wary and concerned, aware that this matter somehow concerned him, yet uncertain of how. As Jaryd breathed more deeply, recovering his control, Daryd knelt before him, pulled his knife from its sheath and offered it to him, hilt first. Jaryd simply gazed, faintly incredulous.
He took Daryd's knife with his good hand and considered the blade. “A Udalyn knife?” he asked, hoarsely. There were decorations on the pommel, Sasha saw in the firelight, intricate spiral patterns.
Daryd seemed to understand. “Udalyn,” he confirmed. “I warrior.” Pointing to himself. “Fight for you.” Sasha was astonished. Either Daryd was a remarkably fast learner, or Sofy a remarkably good teacher. Or both. Perhaps he'd been practising that line all afternoon, awaiting the opportunity.
Jaryd flipped the knife several times, testing its weight. Then handed it back to Daryd. “It's a good knife, warrior Daryd,” he sighed. And ruffled the boy's hair. “But I'll be damned if you're going to fight. You can wait in the back with the princess, and I'll see you delivered safely back to your mother and father. If it's the only good thing to come out of this whole mess, maybe that'll make it worthwhile.”