A time passed, and Sasha was barely aware that the men of the column had been rounded up, and the other wagons searched. Men about her muttered of an orphanage, a special place for abandoned children of mixed blood. They must have been late to leave, they said, and taken refuge in the temple, praying that their gods would save them. Sasha sat against the rear wheel, face in her hands, and wished the world would end.
“Sasha,” came Markan's voice at her side, more gentle than she'd ever heard him. “Synnich-ahn. We have found one alive.”
Sasha raised her tear-streaked face and looked at him. Then another lord came, carrying a bundle that he placed on the road beside her. It was a little boy, perhaps six years old. His face was pale, yet his eyes were sharp, emerald green. Like Errollyn's.
Sasha gazed at him. The boy seemed sightless, and Sasha wondered if he were blind. But she passed a hand before his face, and he blinked, and moved back a little.
“Hello there,” she murmured, in Torovan. “What's your name?” There was no reply. Torovan was a tongue learned at later ages, if at all. Most likely the boy spoke Rhodaani…and perhaps one other. “What is your name?” Sasha tried again, this time in Saalsi, the language of the serrin.
The boy blinked at her, as though noticing her for the first time. Sasha nodded.
“I do speak that tongue,” she told him quietly. “I see you know a little.”
The boy's green eyes shimmered with tears. Sasha hugged him before the sight of his face could make her lose control again. She held him tight, as Isfayen about them wondered at the location of a grave and what to do for a ceremony.
“What do we do with the prisoners?” one man asked Markan. Markan made a gesture of thumb across throat, as careless as a man might decide to cast away food gone bad. The other nodded, and left to do that.
“Ask them who demands the bounty,” Yasmyn called after that man. “If he will not answer, make it slow.”
Sasha picked up the boy, and carried him away from the wagons. He was not going to watch this, nor the burial of his friends.
“Will you tell me your name?” she tried again as she walked.
“Tomli,” came a faint murmur against her ear.
“Well, Tomli,” she said, still in Saalsi, “I have an idea. Likely it will get all of us killed, and destroy the Army of Lenayin. But it's the best idea I have, because it is the only thing I'm still certain is right.”
The more she thought about it, the more certain she became. She climbed the slope off the road, to gain a view of the cliffs, and wait for her party to ride once more.
FOUR
Burying even little bodies took time, when one took proper care. By the time the Isfayen returned to the column, dusk was falling, and the Army of Lenayin had halted to prepare its nighttime defences, and distribute the day's foraged food.
Sasha carried Tomli before her on the saddle, and cared not how many men stared at the pair of them in passing. She left her horse at the stable of the farmhouse commandeered for the night's lordly retreat, and took Tomli inside to the washroom. There she booted out several lords, and set about seeing Tomli washed, well aware of the building commotion outside the washroom door. She emerged only once to ask if anyone had clean children's clothes, and a search of the farmhouse did bring a clean pair of breeches and a shirt down to the washroom door. They were a little too big, but Sasha rolled up the pants, made cuffs of the sleeves, and wondered if some skill in much-despised needlework might not be useful after all.
Then she emerged, ushering Tomli before her, into a main room full of Lenay captains, lords, two princes, and one king. Lamps lit the wooden floors and smooth stone walls, and food lay arrayed upon a long table. The men were all in sombre conversation, knowing what lay within the washroom, and awaiting its emergence.
Koenyg now rose from an armchair, and conversation trailed away to silence.
“Markan told me,” said Koenyg. Markan stood nearby. “How is the boy?”
“Traumatised,” said Sasha. “His name is Tomli. He is five, and he speaks Rhodaani and some Saalsi. He was born to a single mother who gave him to an orphanage. Saalshen keeps them well funded, Tomli seemed happy enough there.”
The horror of it nearly stole her sanity once more. She swallowed hard.
“A Verenthane orphanage?” asked the Great Lord of Rayen, curiously.
“I think,” said Sasha, nodding. “He said he was cared for by priests. He called them all Papa.”
“Those men you found did a grave crime,” Koenyg said grimly, “and their punishment was just. But from now on, all Lenays shall stay within the column. We cannot be enforcing our laws onto every criminal act. Enmities between the Free and the Saalshen Bacosh are two centuries old, and there will be many crimes. It cannot be our place to intervene, and strain the allegiance further.”
“The Black Order of Larosa placed a bounty upon the heads of all serrin and half-breed children,” Sasha said quietly. “Word passes across the land. What we saw was not a crime. It was policy.”
Koenyg's stare darkened. “Sister, I will not have you sow dissension against our Verenthane allies….”
“I state only fact,” said Sasha. “Ask Markan to deny it.” No one looked at Markan. To question the Great Lord of Isfayen's honesty was not wise. “And brother, I cannot be party to any army that supports such acts. These are our allies, and they murder children by the wagonload. Little girls and little boys like Tomli.” Her hand was firm on Tomli's shoulder. Even in the face of this fearsome gathering of strangers, Tomli did not flinch or shake. He had seen far worse than this. “I do not appeal to your sympathy. I appeal to your honour. There is honour in victory against warriors in battle. To murder small children for gold…”
She gazed at each of them in turn. Men met her eyes for a moment, then looked aside. Others would not look at all. She did not complete that last sentence. She could not. For even the rough men of Lenayin, there were no words.
Save for the northerners. The Hadryn, the Ranash, and the Banneryd stood to their own, separate side of the room, and stared with unflinching calm. With them stood Myklas, frowning.
“I recall that you have played this game before,” said the Great Lord Heryd of Hadryn. He was a wall of a man, blond, tall, and undecorated. Pure, in the image of his faith. “In the rebellion, you used orphan children to tug at the hearts of nobles and ladies in Baen-Tar.”
“Not orphan children, Lord Heryd,” Sasha told him, unblinkingly. “They currently reside with their parents in the Udalyn Valley. Their parents live, thanks to me, and your glorious defeat at my hands.”
Lord Heryd steamed. Great Lord Rydysh of Ranash muttered an insult in his native tongue that Sasha did not understand.
“We do not speak of past conflicts,” Koenyg said sharply. “Each part of Lenayin has fought each other part of Lenayin so many times in history, and our losses and grievances outnumber the stars. Here we are one army, and we will not sacrifice future glories on the altar of past hatreds.”
There was nothing “past” about this hatred, and they all knew it. The north was not merely Verenthane-they were devout, and pure. Most Lenay provinces rode in this battle for the allegiance of the great Verenthane lowland powers, and the promised future glory of Lenayin. But the north rode for the sheer religious pleasure of smiting evil, and in northern opinion, that evil had gleaming eyes and oddly coloured hair. They did not care if ten thousand half-breed children were murdered, they were going to heaven, climbing on the piled corpses of the serrin race.
“She has sung this tune before,” Lord Heryd repeated. “One orphan child proves nothing, save that she has few new ideas for luring strong men with women's cowardice.”
“Every time the likes of you go to war,” Sasha told him, “helpless children escape your slaughter to fall into my hands. The only thing proved is that you lot would rather kill children than warriors.”