Approaching midnight, and the clouds had cleared. The moon burned in the sky above the Udalyn Valley like a small silver sun. To either side, the valley sides loomed, bathed in moonlight, their broad slopes patched with fields and forest, grain and paddocks. Little cottages watched over their respective lands, some high on the furthest slopes, others nestled on the banks of the river, or hidden amongst folds in the valleyside. The Yumynis flowed broad and straight down the valley centre, flanked by green pasture and fields of grain. Its waters gleamed silver in the moonlight, and the entire majestic valley seemed to wait, and watch, with hushed anticipation.
Sasha rode near the head of the column, along a road that lifted slightly on the sloping right bank of the river, and felt her skin prickle uncontrollably beneath her clothes. The air seemed warm as a gentle southerly breeze blew from behind their backs. She had never been here before, and yet it felt as familiar as the Baerlyn Valley.
She felt herself filled with longing. She wanted to call up Andreyis from the column behind, and talk with him as they once had talked—as children on the hillside by the ranch, eating fruit from one of Madyn's orchards, and talking about horses, or swordwork, or the doings of other Baerlyn children, and how stupid they all were. But Andreyis had survived his first battle with glory, a rider from the rear had told her, and now rode with his comrades as an equal for the first time.
Now she felt more apart from that idyllic childhood world than ever. Kessligh, the towering pillar of those years, had become someone far different than she'd realised. Andreyis was no longer a boy, but a warrior, blooded in battle. Baerlyn had lost Dobyn the drummer, whose wonderful rhythms would no longer fill the Steltsyn Star on a rowdy evening, and Tesseryl the farmer, who would no longer share fresh mountain olive and goat curd with his neighbours. Farmer Lyndan, from whom Kessligh had often bought chickens, had lost a hand—a common enough injury in cavalry exchanges. But he'd been in good spirits, declaring that he and Geldon the baker could now compare stumps, and that chickens required no more than five fingers anyhow. Nothing was as it had been, and there was no going back.
Ahead, Sasha realised that someone was singing. It was a low, gentle voice, barely audible above the plodding of hooves and the shifting of harness. But it was beautiful, and strange, of lilting melody and haunting melancholy. The singer did not seem to wish to bring attention to herself, yet all murmured conversation behind ceased as men listened to the song. It was Aisha, Sasha realised, and her voice was fair indeed.
She seemed to sense, then, that the attention was on her, and sang louder. Clear notes drifted on the moonlit air, high against the soaring valley sides. Sasha could not make out the exact words, but it seemed that she sang of a lost friend, of suffering seen and partaken in, and of beloved lands, family and friends far away. The gentle swaying of Sasha's saddle seemed in time to the ceaseless murmur of the never-ending river, and the vast, beautiful silence of the fields, farms and cottages. She found herself thinking of all the strands in her life that had brought her to this point—of Krystoff and Kessligh, of Torvaal and her mother. And those more recent faces—Sofy, Damon, her friends in Baerlyn, and Andreyis and Lynette in particular. Jaryd. Captain Tyrun. Of friends made upon the road, and then lost forever.
Tears prickled at her eyes. To her side, she saw that Sofy too rode with tears in her eyes. And yet, for all her sadness, she rode with a newfound confidence, straight-backed and certain in the saddle. Whatever the tears, her eyes never stopped wandering as she gazed about at this legendary sight in wonder. Sasha extended a hand down to her. Sofy looked up, clasped her sister's hand, and smiled.