exchanged looks. “I thought not.”
Edu, the tongue of the Udalyn. So accustomed had she become to the notion that most Lenays would speak at least a little Lenay. But that was a recent event, since the coming of King Soros. Lenayin had been a land of a thousand valleys and, it was said, a thousand tongues. King Soros had brought the warring clans together beneath the Verenthane banner…but not the Udalyn. A century of isolation. And now the boy spoke no language anyone here could speak. One look into his wide, frightened eyes and Sasha realised that she was gazing into the youthful face of antiquity.
“Damn it,” she said to herself, trying to think. “Tullamayne wrote in Edu, yet all we know is translation. There must be something…”
From another horse, there came a plaintive, wailing cry. Two Udalyn, Garys had said. Sasha ran to the other horse and found in that rider's lap a young girl, of no more than six or seven. She looked just as bedraggled, weary and dirty as the boy…and now, utterly exhausted and terrified, amidst armoured strangers who did not speak her tongue, she was panicking. The soldier upon whose saddle she rode, a burly Goeren-yai with a thick beard, tried to restrain her thrashing. The wails grew louder.
“Oh, here, here!” Sasha said, reaching up to the girl as the rider gave evident thought to clasping a gloved hand over her mouth—there were northern riders out in the dark as well. The girl looked down through her sobs and saw Sasha. She held out both arms, instinctively. Sasha pulled her from the saddle and held her, as the girl clutched to her and sobbed upon her cloak.
“Rysha!” the boy now called out, alarmed. “Rysha, elmat ulyn Rysha!” He struggled clear of his soldier's arms, leaped to the ground with considerable agility and ran to her. Sasha put the little girl down and the boy grabbed her, and hugged her close. There was a desperation in that embrace. A closeness in the way the girl enfolded herself to him. A blaze of protective temper in the boy's eyes, a warning look.
“Oh, I see,” Sasha said quietly. She squatted before them with effortless balance. And she extended a careful finger, pointing to the boy. “Brother?” she said slowly, eyebrows raised. Shifted the finger to the girl. “Sister?”
The boy frowned at her, warily. Then nodded. “Sister,” he said, with heavy accent.
“Rysha?” Sasha asked. “Is that her name? Rysha?” Another nod. “That's a pretty name.” With no hope that he understood. But it was important to keep talking. Silence, with children, was never friendly. “How old are you? Years? Summers?”
Incomprehension. Most Lenay tongues shared many words. Often, when meeting a nonspeaker, one could simply list relevant words until finding one that worked. Not this time, it seemed. She pointed to herself, then flashed ten fingers, twice. Then pointed to him, questioningly. Realisation, this time. He pointed to himself and flashed ten fingers, once. And to his sister, then seven fingers.
“And what is your name?” Sasha asked him. Pointed to his sister. “Rysha, and…?”
“Daryd,” said the boy, with more than a hint of pride. “Daryd Yuvenar.”
“Greetings, Daryd Yuvenar,” Sasha said with a smile. “My name is Sashandra Lenayin.” A pause as he seemed to recognise that, frowning. “Princess Sashandra Lenayin,” Sasha added, carefully. Only too well aware of the men who surrounded, watching and listening.
Daryd's frown became a wide-eyed stare. Comprehension at surely the only human woman he'd ever met who wore her hair short with a tri-braid and dressed in pants with a blade at her back. “Synnich-ahn!” he exclaimed. “Tel edan yl Synnich-ahn!”
Dear spirits, not that again. Sasha put a hand firmly on his shoulder. Even little Rysha was staring at her now, teary but wide-eyed. There was a yellow flower in her hair of a kind Sasha had never seen before, now tattered and half-dead. “Daryd Yuvenar. Udalyn?”
Daryd nodded vigorously. “Udalyn. Ren adlyn father! King Torvaal! Vyl heryt ais on shyl Torvaal!” Pointing to his own two eyes, desperately.
Sasha let out a hard breath. That was obvious enough. “Aye,” she said, nodding softly. “I think we can arrange that.” She gave the boy's shoulder a squeeze. “Brave kids. All this way to plead with the king. You could have stopped anywhere, but you didn't.” Didn't trust anyone, she supposed. A century of isolation might do that. And they had been escorted, Garys had said, by one of Jurellyn's scouts; Jurellyn, who had blazed the trail for the