Jaryd…some matter of politics, Sasha presumed. Today Damon was aggravated that the Great Lord of Ranash would not hold his place in the column, and instead wandered to pursue rumours of serrin in the nearby hills. Yesterday, Damon had been upset that the Great Lord of Yethulyn refused to discipline several of his men for the killing of a villager who had insulted one of them. Sasha was certain the true source of Damon's frustrations lay elsewhere, and left Jaryd to deal with him. Better him than her.
She removed her bandoleer, and then her jacket, and hung them on her saddle horn. She stooped to wash her arms and face in the cold water. The chill was lovely, and reminded her of Lenayin.
Something hit the water in front of her, and splashed her, startling her horse. Sasha turned in suspicion and saw nearby her youngest brother Myklas, closest to her of a new group of riders. He tucked his thumbs in his belt and looked nonchalantly elsewhere. But several men were grinning, which gave the game away.
Sasha pulled a rotting piece of wood from the lake bed and threw it at him. It hit before the young prince, showering him with water.
He looked aggrieved. “What was that for?”
Sasha gave him a warning look, and went back to washing. She was in no mood for play. Myklas splashed over to her. He had celebrated his seventeenth birthday just last week, muted and solemn though the celebration had been. Not yet at his full height, he would never grow so tall as Damon, nor so broad as Koenyg. But to hear the Hadryn tell it, he would soon surpass both as a warrior, if he had not already. It was Hadryn he rode with now, pale men in black cloth and armour astride big horses, the famed northern cavalry of Lenayin.
“Sister, I'm wet,” said Myklas as he approached.
“Oh, the injustice.”
“I demand recompense.”
Sasha ignored him. Though now a blooded warrior, Myklas still found the world a game. Perhaps he felt he could recapture an earlier innocence. Sasha wondered how long it would be until he discovered he could not.
Myklas sighed, sensing her mood, and put an arm about her shoulders. “How do you heal?” he asked.
“Well enough,” said Sasha. “Even the scars are fading.”
“Let me feel,” said Myklas. It was hardly the place for it, with men all about watering their horses, but Sasha had long ago decided that the moment she demanded ladylike exceptions from these men, they would put her in the rear and suggest she exchange her sword for an embroidery needle. She unlaced the front of her shirt, pulling it back to her throat so that the collar fell down her shoulders. Myklas put his hand down her back, and felt at the old scars.
A month ago, those had been terrible, great welts and scabs from cuts, canes, and burns. Now, Myklas's hand felt only faint unevenness on her skin.
“No pain?” he asked her.
“It's odd,” she admitted. “The new skin feels too sensitive, almost sore. The burn marks are the worst.” Those had been from a red-hot poker. She'd killed the man who'd done it, but not the one who'd ordered it done. There was great competition amongst her brothers and friends to be the one who severed that man's head…after perhaps several limbs, and various other appendages. “But no, no pain.”
“It would take more than a dozen torturers to leave a mark on you,” said Myklas. He withdrew his hand, and put the arm back around her. Sasha sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. He was just now getting tall enough that she could do that. He kissed her on the head, put a foot behind her own feet, and tripped her over backward.
Sasha hit the water with a freezing splash, cursing herself for an idiot, but not at all surprised. She grabbed Myklas's legs, braced her feet, and drove a shoulder into him. He came down on top of her, and then they were both splashing and flailing in the water, her nearly gaining the upper hand to shove his head down, then he taking her arms and twisting her over
She removed her bandoleer, and then her jacket, and hung them on her saddle horn. She stooped to wash her arms and face in the cold water. The chill was lovely, and reminded her of Lenayin.
Something hit the water in front of her, and splashed her, startling her horse. Sasha turned in suspicion and saw nearby her youngest brother Myklas, closest to her of a new group of riders. He tucked his thumbs in his belt and looked nonchalantly elsewhere. But several men were grinning, which gave the game away.
Sasha pulled a rotting piece of wood from the lake bed and threw it at him. It hit before the young prince, showering him with water.
He looked aggrieved. “What was that for?”
Sasha gave him a warning look, and went back to washing. She was in no mood for play. Myklas splashed over to her. He had celebrated his seventeenth birthday just last week, muted and solemn though the celebration had been. Not yet at his full height, he would never grow so tall as Damon, nor so broad as Koenyg. But to hear the Hadryn tell it, he would soon surpass both as a warrior, if he had not already. It was Hadryn he rode with now, pale men in black cloth and armour astride big horses, the famed northern cavalry of Lenayin.
“Sister, I'm wet,” said Myklas as he approached.
“Oh, the injustice.”
“I demand recompense.”
Sasha ignored him. Though now a blooded warrior, Myklas still found the world a game. Perhaps he felt he could recapture an earlier innocence. Sasha wondered how long it would be until he discovered he could not.
Myklas sighed, sensing her mood, and put an arm about her shoulders. “How do you heal?” he asked.
“Well enough,” said Sasha. “Even the scars are fading.”
“Let me feel,” said Myklas. It was hardly the place for it, with men all about watering their horses, but Sasha had long ago decided that the moment she demanded ladylike exceptions from these men, they would put her in the rear and suggest she exchange her sword for an embroidery needle. She unlaced the front of her shirt, pulling it back to her throat so that the collar fell down her shoulders. Myklas put his hand down her back, and felt at the old scars.
A month ago, those had been terrible, great welts and scabs from cuts, canes, and burns. Now, Myklas's hand felt only faint unevenness on her skin.
“No pain?” he asked her.
“It's odd,” she admitted. “The new skin feels too sensitive, almost sore. The burn marks are the worst.” Those had been from a red-hot poker. She'd killed the man who'd done it, but not the one who'd ordered it done. There was great competition amongst her brothers and friends to be the one who severed that man's head…after perhaps several limbs, and various other appendages. “But no, no pain.”
“It would take more than a dozen torturers to leave a mark on you,” said Myklas. He withdrew his hand, and put the arm back around her. Sasha sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. He was just now getting tall enough that she could do that. He kissed her on the head, put a foot behind her own feet, and tripped her over backward.
Sasha hit the water with a freezing splash, cursing herself for an idiot, but not at all surprised. She grabbed Myklas's legs, braced her feet, and drove a shoulder into him. He came down on top of her, and then they were both splashing and flailing in the water, her nearly gaining the upper hand to shove his head down, then he taking her arms and twisting her over
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