over his shoulder, turning in the saddle in order to see her past the obscuring helm. “How old a building? Did you see the foundation stone above the door?”
“The year 309, it said,” Damon answered, and Sasha pursed her lips. Five hundred and forty-eight years old, then—it being the year 857 by the Verenthane calendar, since the gods had presented Saint Tristan with the Scrolls of Ulessis, in the Bacosh province of Enora. The number meant something to Verenthanes. To Goeren-yai, it provided merely a convenient yardstick against which to measure time.
“The Cherrovan didn't mind these monasteries?”
“No,” said Kessligh. “Cherrovan weren't bothered by much, back then. Or at least, they didn't find a few monks in the wilderness threatening.”
“There's an old ruin off the road to Cryliss,” Sasha countered. “The stones are blackened, it looks as if it might have been put to fire a long time ago.”
“Yes, but that's Valhanan. There's no monasteries around Valhanan or Tyree. Or much of central Lenayin, for that matter.”
“Why?”
“Because the good, tolerant folk of Valhanan burnt them all down and put the inhabitants to the sword, of course.” Sasha gave him a frowning look, questioning his sincerity. Kessligh shrugged. “Good people can have bad histories, Sasha. And bad people can have good moments too in their past. Not everything the Cherrovan did in their occupation was bad either…a lot of very good, enlightened Cherrovan formed allegiances with Lenays, and worked with them for the common good. The Udalyn especially met and worked with many such. I met some, in the war—Cherrovans who had married into Udalyn families and ended up fighting their own people for the liberation of Lenayin. I don't doubt their descendants are still alive in the Valley of the Udalyn, those that survived. All forgotten today, of course.”
“I thought an enlightened Cherrovan was a contradiction in terms,” Sasha remarked.
“I asked a serrin about that once, when I was young and naive. She was well-versed in Lenay history, her uman had taught her the accumulated tales of more generations of Lenays than any Lenay human could possibly hold in his head. I asked her if, from the serrin point of view spanning countless centuries, the Cherrovan were a particularly bad or barbaric people. She was quite surprised at the impetuosity of the question, coming from a Lenay…or at least an adopted Lenay. “Young man,” she said, “I believe the Lenay expression is that your implication is like the pot calling the pan black.” Over the span of the last thousand years, Sasha, the most barbaric, bloodthirsty warmongers in all of Rhodia were the Lenays. That's one reason the Torovans are so keen on recruiting us to fight in the Bacosh—they hope that the simple fear of a Lenay army in the lowlands will frighten the Saalshen Bacosh into conceding ground without a fight. They tell tales of Lenay warriors in Petrodor that would make your blood run cold. The Lenay ‘enlightenment’, such as it is, is a very recent phenomenon, I assure you.”
“Do you think the coming of Verenthanes with Grandfather Soros made Lenayin a better place?” Sasha asked sombrely.
“A central authority in Baen-Tar made Lenayin a better place,” Kessligh replied with surety. “This conflict between Taneryn and Hadryn may be contained because of what we are doing right now—companies in the service of your father riding to put a stop to it. In previous centuries, that didn't happen. Lenayin is a nation now, not just a squabbling rabble. And Verenthaneism is the glue that holds the provinces to your father's will.”
“So you think Verenthaneism has made us better?”
“I didn't say that. Glue is glue. Verenthaneism serves its purpose where fractious ancient beliefs and loyalties could not. It makes Lenayin one. But any other glue may have served as well.”
There was nothing quite so lonely, Sasha thought, as sitting watch at camp after a battle. The log beneath her was hard, the air far colder than a summer night had any right to be, and there was no light but the brilliance of a billion stars. From about the camp came the sound of men snoring, or a horse snorting. Alone in the dark, a watchman's thoughts were his only company. And his memories.
A twig snapped. Sasha stared into the darkness, hands grasping the sword by her side. A rustle of pine needles. “M'Lady Sashandra? Are you there?”
Jaryd's voice. She could see him now, very faintly, a shadow in the blackness. She wondered if he would go away if she remained