“I am so tired of being pushed around,” Sofy replied, with dark, even temper. “So tired, Koenyg. The peoples of Lenayin are independent, and do not cherish being stamped upon. Sasha reminded you once, and I remind you again. Stop now, before you destroy everything you claim to serve.”
“You do not speak to me of service to Lenayin!” Koenyg snarled. “You are a woman! You do not wield a sword, you do not risk death in war, you live pampered and protected by menfolk on all sides. Your only sacrifice is marriage, in this case to perhaps the wealthiest and most esteemed family in all Rhodia! I think you got a bargain in this deal of life, little sister, yet you whine about it.”
“This isn’t about me, you big fool!” Sofy exclaimed with creeping desperation. “This is about Lenayin. You seek alliance with the Larosa, but on what terms? The people of Lenayin will never accept anything less than equality, yet the lowlanders to a man and woman consider us savages! You tell me to behave, not to ride my horse, to be a good and proper little Verenthane princess…is this to be Lenayin’s fate too? Should we not speak our tongues, and sing our songs, and dance our dances? Should we hide in shame, and beg acceptance from those perfumed Larosan snobs? You’ve bossed and pushed and prodded all of Lenayin into this war, and willingly enough, thanks to the Lenay love of warfare…but good gods, Koenyg, you can’t neglect Lenay pride. You are a commander of Lenay soldiers, how can you expect us to enter an unequal marriage bereft of pride?”
Koenyg almost smiled, grimly. “That’s elaborate, Sofy, even for you.” His temper had nearly faded, a hard, implacable certainty in its place. “So skilfully you turn your little personal dramas into a concern for all of Lenayin.”
Sofy sighed, and hung her head. Arguing with Koenyg truly was like bashing one’s head against a stone wall. She should have known better.
“Less than a year ago, you had no great love of horses, and no skill in riding. Yet suddenly, your selfish pursuit is the foundation upon which the entire fate of Lenayin is balanced.”
“I’ve changed.”
“Aye. To suit yourself, you have. I ask you to change back, to suit Lenayin. You are one person, and Lenayin is many people. My tutors taught me maths, and I can prove it to you should you wish.” He touched heels to his stallion’s sides, and cantered off toward the vanguard’s head.
Yasmyn took her place again at Sofy’s side. “I like arguing with him so much better when he’s angry,” Sofy said glumly. “He doesn’t think when he’s angry. But when he recovers his senses like that, he becomes annoyingly insightful.”
“He scares me,” said Yasmyn.
“Oh go on!” Sofy scolded lightly. “You, a noble daughter of Isfayen, frightened of a man?”
“A great man,” Yasmyn corrected. Her dark eyes, shining with worship, had not left Koenyg’s departing back. “All great men are frightening.”
Sofy sighed again. Given some time, she might have made a convincing argument that the majority of her Lenay brethren were not, in fact, savages. But the Isfayen were on their own.
Sofy was practising her Larosan in the royal carriage after lunch when the door opened, and Damon hauled himself inside. Ulynda, Sofy’s grey-haired tutor, bowed low. “Shall I leave, Highness?”
“Yes,” said Damon.
“No,” said Sofy at the same time. The middle-aged woman bowed to Damon, opened the carriage’s opposite door and climbed down with assistance from a Royal Guardsman. Sofy frowned at Damon as he loosened his swordbelt. “Damon, truly, she has a bad knee, there was no need to tell her to leave.”
Damon ignored her, pulling off his heavy gloves. Sofy’s third-eldest brother had always looked slightly dark and morose, and now more than ever. He had a lean face, suited more by longer hair than the Verenthane norm. His garb was no less martial than Koenyg’s, but somehow it seemed to sit ill upon his tall frame. He looked sombre, Sofy thought. Brooding, even.
She put aside her book of Larosan poems and folded her hands in her lap, waiting. Damon did this sometimes, simply imposed himself upon her company, and left it to her to probe and discover what was bothering him. He leaned his head back now, rocking as the carriage trundled over rough ground, and stared blankly out of the open window.
“How’s the Larosan coming?” he asked.
“It’s a nice language,” Sofy replied. “They write the most lovely poetry.” Sofy loved their plays, songs and poems, and had taught herself Larosan from an early age. “I would learn faster if you would not dismiss my tutor in midlesson so you could come and chat.”
Damon let the jibe pass. This listlessness worried her. Unlike Koenyg, and the late-yet-legendary Krystoff, Prince Damon was not the most lively and positive of princes. But this was becoming extreme, even for him.
“The last scout says we will not be in these foothills beyond tomorrow,” he said. “We should be in Algrasse the day after that, and then there’ll be farmlands.”
“And fresh food!” said Sofy. She was getting a little tired of the dried fare brought from Lenayin in the supply wagons.
Damon shrugged. “Perhaps. If Lord Heshan is true to his word, and supplies our army along the way. The lords of the Bacosh are not renowned for keeping their word on anything.”
“He’d better,” said Sofy. “We haven’t brought enough. We’d have to forage, otherwise.”
Damon rolled his eyes and grimaced. A Lenay army in the lowlands. Foraging. It seemed dangerously close to “looting.” And “invasion.” The lowlands had lived in terror of a Lenay invasion for centuries, an occurrence only prevented by the overlordship of the Cherrovan Empire, and the preference of the various Lenay regions for fighting each other. Leading an army of thirty-thousand Lenay warriors into the “civilised” lowlands made a great many people nervous, including some noble Lenays who did not trust the civility of their ruffian country cousins. It was a delicate matter all round. That the Larosans were allowing passage across their lands, and had encouraged Algrasse and Telesia to allow the same, was indication enough of how much the Lenays were needed in the war to come.
“So,” said Sofy. “How does your journey fare? Amongst all the grand importances of the vanguard?”
“Still squabbling about who will take the centre in the first battle,” said Damon. “The northerners, of course, insist it shall be them, but Koenyg insists on the importance of deploying heavy cavalry to a useful flank, and Father agrees. Furthermore, the Hadryn insist they will not hold the Taneryn flank, and vice versa; the Isfayen will have nothing to do with the Yethulyn; a grand family of Fyden have discovered they share the same house banner as a family from Banneryd, and have nearly come to blows over its ownership; and the new Great Lord of Taneryn, Ackryd, refuses to ride with the vanguard, and has headed back to his part of the column.”
“Well, that’s Lenayin for you. I don’t know why you let it bother you, Damon. Division is the nature of our kingdom, and always shall be.”
“That doesn’t bother me,” Damon replied tiredly. “It’s just…I don’t know how this is going to work, Sofy. Everyone fights differently, everyone’s in the war for personal advantage and glory. I don’t believe there’s any certainty that the great lords will even obey commands from Father or Koenyg in the heat of battle, if they think they have a better idea. Or if they see the order as advantaging a Lenay rival.”
Sofy did not reply. She was thinking about her sister Sasha. Sasha was Nasi-Keth, and thus loved the serrin. Sasha also loved Lenayin. Yet Lenayin was now marching to make war on the serrin…or at least, on their Saalshen Bacosh allies. Gods knew what Sasha felt, wherever she was now. Sofy was a Verenthane, as were all Lenayin royalty, and most of the nobility. The war was being fought in the name of the Verenthane faith. Yet for all the grand pronouncements of Archbishop Dalryn, and of the devout nobility, and from the northerners in particular, she could not feel any enthusiasm for this war.