“Speak your mind, Tolnían. It would give me relief.”
“Highness, forgive me. I was only wondering if there is anything I can do to relieve the Dar. I can almost feel the weight of ruling pushing him down.”
Sabíana looked ahead at her father, who walked briskly with the head of the company. He betrayed no outward signs of stress.
“You are a bit young to be able to read people so well, Tolnían,” she said.
“I never had a childhood, my lady. My mother and father died when I was little. They were ambassadors to Karila.”
“Do you mean—”
“Yes, they were among those massacred.”
Sabíana was surprised by the calm tone. It was full of warm remembrance, but resigned in a way typical with older men, not youths.
They had reached the turret built into one of the carved trees framing Vasyllia’s doors. They climbed onto the platform, and Sabíana’s heart grew cold, her limbs heavy, at the sight of the enemy. There was no end to them—torches as far and deep as the eye could see—endless lines across the high plain, into the groves on either side, and all the way down the slopes until they were shrouded in fog. Sabíana nearly despaired. She and the Dar approached the wall, and a banner-bearer raised a large, black banner with the figure of a High Being. Sabíana couldn’t remember what sort of being it was. Perhaps someone invoked during wartime.
In the torchlight, details were difficult to distinguish. The invaders were all dressed similarly in loose kaftans cinched at the waist, worn over tight-fitting pants—good riding clothes, Sabíana realized—and no external markings seemed to distinguish the common soldier from the officer. All of them were brown-skinned, squat, well-built, with silky black hair and faces like round bowls. There was some similarity in feature to the Karila, but these had a much more pronounced angle to their eyes. It looks like they’re always laughing, thought Sabíana with an unpleasant lurch in her stomach.
One of the largest came forward, surrounded by a guard of archers with bows impossibly long, almost the height of two men standing on each other’s shoulders. Surely, they were no more than ceremonial, she thought. But the grim set of the archers’ jaws changed her mind. This leader had a silk scarf tied to his fur-lined conical hat, probably to designate importance. He looked up at them and bowed to the waist. He then snapped his fingers, and a large band of shirtless, muscular brutes armed with spears pushed a prisoner forward. He looked familiar. Then she recognized him, and she reeled at the edge of abysmal despair, barely holding on. It was Dubían.
“Father, what does this mean? What about…”
“Hush, my dear,” he whispered, his eyes set and firm. “We know nothing. Not yet.”
Dubían was bloodied and his face was swollen, his eyes barely visible. The brutes pushed him down to his knees with spear-points. The silk-scarfed leader said something in an undertone to Dubían, and to Sabíana’s surprise it sounded like the Vasyllian tongue. How could these mysterious enemies from beyond the Steppelands speak Vasyllia’s language? Dubían shook his head, stubbornly looking down. The leader took up a heavy horsewhip and beat him twice. Dubían tilted his head up, though Sabíana still doubted he could actually see much, so battered was his face. She pitied him, but the face she saw in her mind—battered and bruised—was Voran’s. Her hands trembled.
“Highness,” rasped Dubían. “Forgive me. I have failed in my charge before you. I did not come in time to warn you.
The whip cracked again. The leader angrily muttered something at Dubían.
“Dubían, my son,” said Dar Antomír with unexpected vigor, though Sabíana couldn’t mistake the slight tremor, “do not fear to speak. Whatever they force you to say, say it. You are not accountable. Adonais forgives, and so do I. Speak.”
The leader guffawed and slapped the back of Dubían’s head, almost as a friendly encouragement. Sabíana’s stomach lurched again dangerously.
“I thank you, Highness.” Dubían crouched over in pain, then forced himself to straighten. His eyes were now completely shut. “The Gumiren have one condition. They will allow Vasyllia its peace and continued existence. In return, the Dar must recognize the lordship of the Ghan of Gumir, though as a courtesy he will retain the title of Dar. Every ten years, three of Vasyllia’s best young men and three of Vasyllia’s best young women will be sent to the capital city of Gumir-atlan, to be given in marriage to the clan-lords and ladies of the Gumiren. An additional tribute of timber, furs, gold, and wine will be levied every few months. Furthermore, a representative of the Ghan will preside at all ruling sessions of the Dar. He will have power to supersede the Dar’s command, should the Ghan’s wishes contradict those of the Dar.”
Dar Antomír suddenly took a spear from one of his retainers and hurled it over the wall. It landed point-first at the feet of the leader. Sabíana gritted her teeth, expecting an immediate reprisal. The leader smiled derisively and spit on the spear.
“Vasyllia rejects your offer, Gumir!” cried the Dar. “We know who you are. Tell your Ghan’s masters that we will never treat with them. Our blood and our lives first, you filth!”
The leader smiled no more. The Dar turned away from him and spoke to the wall-guard.
“This is the time of testing, my children. Stand fast, and fear no darkness!”
Sabíana sensed the rising of an invisible cloud of anger from the direction of the Gumiren. The air itself seemed poisoned. The leader rattled off a curt command in a guttural language that sounded like spoons beating each other. He pointed at Dubían. The entire army of Gumiren shrieked—a high-pitched, blood-curdling whooping that sounded more beastly than human. Dubían’s guards hurled their spears at their prisoner. His face twitched, but not a sound of pain escaped his lips. He half-fell to the earth, the spear-shafts twisting his body awkwardly.
A shout rose among the Vasylli.
“Rogdai,” cried the Dar, “now!”
Sabíana felt the shadows widening around her into dancing spots, and everything started to go dark. The shrieks pursued her into the darkness.
“Princess dear! Little one? Wake UP!”
Sabíana woke, finding it difficult to remember where she was, why she was wherever she was, and even for a brief moment who she was. A round, wrinkled face with two apple-red spots on her cheeks was not a foot away from hers. There was something familiar about it.
“Well, my chick. Took you long enough.”
“Nanny? What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“You were not doing so well. They needed my special knowledge.”
The old face, wrapped and tied elaborately in the manner of widows, had hardly a tooth left in it, but still she smiled in that way only the old have, so full of memory. Sabíana imagined how the old woman must be seeing all her selves—the precocious child, the headstrong girl, the Dar’s solemn daughter—in a single moment. It unnerved Sabíana, though the sensation was not unpleasant.
“How long have I been sleeping?”
“Sleep? That wasn’t sleep, my little one. Three days. They thought you had caught the pestilence.”
Everything came flooding back, especially Dubían’s broken body lying askew on the muddy ground. Again spots danced before her eyes, and the world swam around her. Enough of this weakness, she said to herself. I am of Cassían’s proud line. We have iron in our hearts, and if all others fall to the madness out there beyond the wall, I will not.
The world righted itself, though Nanny still looked worried.
“Poor Dubían,” Sabíana whispered. “How terrible to die within sight of home, but never to enter it a last time.”
The corners of Nanny’s mouth trembled.
