Petrodor: A Trial of Blood and Steel, Book 2 (15 page)

Jaryd reached for his boot knife—not really a throwing knife, but he threw it anyway. The bowman ducked, the knife deflected off the crossbow and Jaryd charged. The bowman dropped the crossbow, scampering back as Jaryd hurdled the fence, drawing his blade. Jaryd swung hard, the other man defended desperately, fended the second and third with a clash of steel, yet was simply overpowered by the fourth, lost his hand on the fifth, and was sliced through the chest by the sixth before he could scream.

Jaryd turned and found the third man staring in horror. This man had no crossbow, just a sword. Evidently he did not relish the prospect of using it now. This was no hired blade. This man knew exactly whom he'd been sent to kill. The assassin turned and fled. Jaryd chased, his heart pounding, blood singing in his ears. He hadn't felt this alive since Tarryn had still been in the world. He pursued the fleeing shadow past a chicken run, then hurdled another fence onto a vegetable patch. Another fence, and he was out into an open field in the middle of the Baerlyn Valley. The light of the wedding bonfire grew dimmer behind and the stars overhead were bright and clear. His boots sank into the grass as he ran, stumbling on an uneven patch in the dark. The fleeing shadow before him was slim, and fleet of foot. Jaryd was a powerful young man, and knew how to use that power to intimidating effect with a blade. But now, his legs grew weary, and his breathing came hard, and the light figure ahead seemed barely troubled when he hurdled the next fenceline and raced on into the dark.

It was two fencelines later before Jaryd finally gave up. He'd headed up-valley, past empty farmhouses, tripping on plough furroughs and splashing in irrigation ditches as he went.

“Come back and fight, you horse-fucking coward!” he roared at the dark, with the last of his energy. Now that he'd stopped, the night air chilled his sweat. He was exhausted from the effort, and barely able to keep his feet. The unfairness of it infuriated him. He swung his blade at the dark, smiting invisible foes. Gleaming in the night sky, he saw Ambellion's Star, bright and clear. Cathaty's Eye, the Goeren-yai called it. In the lowlands, and amongst Lenay Verenthanes, it was the Verenthane Star. “You!” Jaryd yelled, pointing his sword at the star. “You saved him! You defy me once more, you bastards! Well I've
had
it with you! I've rejected you, do you hear? This isn't your land, and you can't
fuck with me any longer
!”

A sharp wind blew upon the Cliff of the Dead. Marya Steiner put a hand to her hair and hoped that the pins would not tear out from the force of it. She walked with her other hand in that of her nine-year-old son, and her husband by her side, with a pair of guards to their front and back.

“I absolutely forbid it, Symon!” Marya insisted in a low voice. “This is my sister, she would never put me in danger.”

“I hear stories, my love,” replied Symon Steiner, edgily. He looked good in black, with a gold-pommelled sword at his hip. A little slimmer and shorter than a Lenay bride might typically have hoped, but he was handsome, and clever, and kind. “This particular sister of yours—and the gods know you have so many I am frequently confused—has a reputation that would insult the good breeding of a rabid dog—”

“Oh, Symon, don't be like that! The Sashandra I remember was a gorgeous little girl, always full of life and mischief…”

“There are many definitions of mischief, my love.” Symon threw a glance up and down the terraced incline. “One might think that leading an armed rebellion against Verenthane patriots in the north, against the wishes of her father the king, goes a little beyond simple mischief.”

Marya sighed, not halting her stride. “Sashandra
always
went a little beyond simple mischief,” she admitted. “But…oh Symon, you never knew her like I did. You don't know how much
fun
she was! She was a delightful little scoundrel.”

Behind them, toward the end of Besendi Promontory, the funeral for Randel Ragini was dispersing. The seniors of Family Steiner, and all their allies, bereaved and sorrowful in black. Marya had never liked that silly Endurance that the men all insisted upon every Sadisi. Three days ago now. Every year, someone was hurt. This year, just like she'd warned would happen, it was someone important. Young Randel, such a nice boy. His father had seemed in shock, barely looking at anyone while the priest had recited the last rites. Doubtless losing a son in such pointless circumstances was difficult, to say nothing of an heir. When she'd taken Patachi Ragini's hand to offer her condolences, it had been shaking.

“Look,” said Symon, “at least allow me to place some extra men on the upper terrace. Just in case.”

“Symon, she is Nasi-Keth,” Marya said reasonably. “And from what I hear, quite talented. Your own sources say she has friends among the serrin, she's been seen frequently with that Rhillian woman…”

“All the more reason to—”

“Her note said to come alone!” Marya insisted. “If she has serrin friends, don't you think there might be serrin archers hiding somewhere?”

“Where?”

“If I knew that, dearest, they wouldn't be hiding, would they?”

“It's very windy for archers, Mummy,” said Krystoff. He was watching a big gull soaring just above, using the updraughts to hold almost motionless against the overcast sky, save for twitches of its tail.

“Not for serrin archers it's not, darling,” Marya corrected her eldest son. Even
she
knew that. “And if your papa insists on moving some men where they're not supposed to be, those archers might use his men for target practice. Mightn't they, dearest?”

The path rounded a bend, and now they could see it—a small, wooden hut where the terrace ended and the sheer cliff resumed. Beyond, where the slope became more gentle, Petrodor began, a mass of buildings up the incline. Upon the docks, men looked like swarms of ants.

“At least you should leave Krys with me,” Symon attempted, one last time.

“No,” Marya said firmly. “He should meet his aunt, it will do him good.”

“For all damnation, woman,” said Symon, with the beginnings of cold temper, “would you put your own son's life at risk?”

“No.” Marya stopped, and gave him a cold look of her own. “No, I would not.”

“I'm not afraid, Papa,” said Krystoff earnestly. “I'd like to meet her.”

Symon spared the ocean an exasperated stare. “I know you're not afraid, son. I never doubted it.”

“Symon,” said Marya, her tone softening. “You claim to know something about my sister. Our son's name is
Krystoff
. If you know
anything
about her, you'll know why she of all people could never harm a hair on his head.” Her husband just looked at her, for a long, calculating moment. Marya had seen him give that look before, making deals with powerful men. Wondering if all was, in fact, as it appeared. “You Torovans,” she said with exasperation. “Truly, one might believe you thought you were the only people to whom family mattered. You have so many family here, Symon. I see so few of my old family. Please.”

“Go,” he said. “I'll be right here.”

Marya kissed him on the cheek gratefully. She clutched Krystoff's hand all the more tightly and walked toward the wooden hut.

Krystoff took the door's latch, well trained in the ways of gentlemanly conduct. The rusty iron squealed and Marya stepped in behind him, eyeing the gloom with trepidation, a hand on her son's shoulder.

“Hello?” she called. Her heart was beating very fast. Surely Symon could not be right? Much of his information came indirectly from Alythia, she knew, and Alythia…well, she was prone to making up all sorts of accusations
about people she didn't like. Alythia and Sasha…Sofy had said, in her occasional letters, how truly alike they were in their high-strung tempers, and how ironic it was that neither could recognise the fact. Surely Alythia had not been more than just tale telling?

Krystoff closed the door behind them, and the wind ceased. Marya's eyes adjusted, and she saw that there were headstones and pavings stacked in stone piles, with shovels and spades to maintain the small flower gardens that grew between the stones. Wind shook the walls and lifted the roof planks against their nails. The panes in two small windows rattled.

“Hello,” said a voice to her right, and Marya spun. There was a dark figure there. “Is that your husband? He's a bit small, isn't he?”

“Dear gods,” Marya exclaimed, with a hand to her chest. “You startled me.”

“Sorry,” said the figure. “It happens.”

A female voice. But the gloom was too deep for visible detail, and Marya's eyes had not adjusted. “Sashandra?” Marya ventured, a little breathlessly.

A small laugh in the darkness. “You never used to call me Sashandra,” said the voice. The Torovan was excellent, yet the accent very broad.

“Gods, come out of that dark corner!” Marya exclaimed, backing toward the windows, her hand still on Krystoff's shoulder. “I want to look at you!”

The dark figure followed, a lithe, soundless movement. Then she emerged into the silver light coming through the glass panes. Not a big girl, especially not for the reputation she had attained, victorious rebellion against the Hadryn and all. The clothes were scandalously unfeminine, yet really quite well made. A jacket of soft leather, neatly fitting pants and snug boots. And a bandoleer, of course, worn over the jacket, the hilt of a sword protruding above her left shoulder. Her short hair had been mussed by the wind, her tri-braid dangling free down the left side of her jaw.

And her face…Marya put a hand to her mouth. Big dark eyes, formerly full of mischief. Now watching her, curiously. The same, slightly wicked slant to the eyebrows. The same impudent nose. All grown up, and oh-so different…and yet, to a degree she'd not dared hope possible, clearly the same girl from her memories, all those years ago.

“Sasha?” she said softly. “Is that really you?”

Tears came to Sasha's eyes, unexpectedly. Marya's eyes also filled. The sisters embraced as the little wooden hut above the roaring surf shuddered in the howling wind. How silly to have worried, Marya managed to think past the happiness and relief. How silly to have worried about my little sister. Good lords, she felt absolutely
solid
beneath her leathers! A little less than average size, perhaps, but made of rock!

“Oh here, Sasha, look!” Marya disentangled herself, wiping her eyes. “Here's someone I'd like you to meet! Sasha, this is my eldest boy. Krystoff.”

Krystoff bowed. Sasha gazed, her eyes still wet. Such a pretty girl in her own curious way. But then, it had never been
looks
her family lacked. “I am honoured to meet you, Aunt Sashandra.”

Sasha grinned. She changed expressions fast, Marya observed with fascinated remembrance. The same little Sashandra. Temperamental, even now. “And I am likewise honoured to meet my nephew,” she said, returning the bow. “Do you speak any Lenay, Krystoff?”

“A little.” Krystoff gave his mother a cautious glance. “Mother teaches me. And she says bad words in Lenay when she's angry.”

“Oh I do not!” Marya exclaimed, but smiling.

“That's good,” said Sasha. “It's good to know where your parents come from.
Both
of your parents.” With a knowing glance at Marya.

“Papa says the Lenays are fierce warriors,” Krystoff agreed. “Grandpa says all of Lenayin shall some day make fine Verenthane allies. I think it's a good language for me to learn.”

Sasha's face fell. Not angry, but the smile disappeared as fast as it had come. “Well, your grandpa's not perfect, I suppose.” There was an edge to her tone. Krystoff frowned, not understanding.

“Krys,” Marya said, “you go and wait outside with your father. Sasha and I need some time alone to catch up. We haven't seen each other in a long time.”

“A long time,” Sasha repeated with a laugh. “Fourteen years! I was a little brat up to your knee!”

“It was very nice to meet you, Aunt Sashandra,” said Krystoff. “Perhaps we can meet again another time.”

“I'd like that,” said Sasha. Marya thought she meant it. “Oh, and Krystoff?” she added as the boy opened the hut door, letting in a swirl of wind. “Best tell your father that I'm not alone here. Tell him we're being watched by people with excellent aim. He'll understand.”

Krystoff nodded, warily. He understood, too. One was not born the heir to the Steiner Empire, of any generation, to not understand such things. The door closed.

“He seems a nice boy,” said Sasha.

“He's very sweet,” Marya agreed. “He'll make a fine patachi one day.”

“Hmm,” said Sasha.

“And really, Sasha,” Marya scolded gently, “you needn't worry about Symon. He's just worried about me, that's all. There's no need to threaten him.”

“I'll never threaten anyone who doesn't threaten me first,” Sasha said coolly.

There was a look in her eye as she said it that gave Marya a chill.
That
hadn't been there, in the eyes of the little girl she'd known. The little girl was now a young woman, and this young woman had killed people. Quite a few people, if the tales were true.

“He doesn't look very much like Krystoff,” Sasha added, thoughtfully watching the door where the boy had stood.