“I am not a man to judge such things, Lord Krayliss,” Kessligh replied, shrewdly. “If you wish a recounting, best that you ask her yourself.”
Krayliss stopped at the forefront of his gathering, assorted village headmen and respected warriors from across Taneryn. Followers of Krayliss, at least. Not all the men of Taneryn could be described as such. But some, facing Hadryn aggression, might rally to his side nonetheless.
“Yuan Cassyl makes a fair observation,” he rumbled, meaty thumbs tucked into his broad leather belt. “Women are not welcome at Goeren-yai councils of war. It is not our way.”
“If my ways are not welcome here,” said Kessligh, “then I shall leave. Do you revoke your previous invitation?” Their stares locked. A contest of wills, the stubborn versus the disciplined. The blunt instrument versus the sharp. A lord never revoked an invitation. Kessligh had drawn the line, somewhat closer to Lord Krayliss's toes than most men would dare.
“Girl!” Krayliss barked then, with a wry twist of his lips. “Come forward! Step where we can see you!”
Sasha cast her cloak away from her left shoulder, exposing the hilt of her sword, and moved quietly to Kessligh's side. It was an effort not to meet Krayliss's eyes, but she kept her gaze demurely on his broad chest, as a good Goeren-yai maiden should among such mighty warriors. Surrounding her, some men stared in displeasure. Others with intent curiosity. And some with mouths smirking in imitation of their lord, as if thinking the matter some huge jest.
“So…” rumbled Krayliss, raking her from head to toe with his gaze. “The girl who was once a princess. Some men still call you that, do they not?”
“The men of Lenayin shall do as they will, my Lord,” Sasha replied, provoking some laughter at that truism. “It is no longer my title, I ceased to be princess when I left Baen-Tar.”
“The bonds of blood are deeper than mere titles, girl,” said Krayliss. Some of the smirking ceased at that utterance. The lord's eyes bore deeper. Sasha's instinct was to meet challenge with challenge. The effort to keep her eyes lowered was enough to bring sweat to her brow. “These tales from Perys. The rider who gave them was young and with little hair between his legs…much like our Master Jaryd here.”
A roar of laughter from the gathered men. Sasha repressed a retort with difficulty. Sometimes, in her love of the Goeren-yai, she forgot why she disliked Lord Krayliss so greatly. Now she remembered.
“I did not slay nine men,” she said tightly.
“Ha,” said one village headman, contemptuously, “as I said. Just as I said.”
“I slew four.”
Deathly silence across the hall. “You witnessed this deed?” Krayliss asked Kessligh.
“Not I,” said Kessligh. “I saw the bodies in the aftermath.”
“I saw it!” called Jaryd to the group, proudly. “I was not ten paces from the last when he fell! All four fell so fast and so close that I had barely yelled warning of the first, when the last had fallen upon his corpse! It was a masterful display and I pity those who were not there to see it! Even as Verenthane, I swear I could see the mark of your spirits in the strokes of her blade!”
Sasha swore beneath her breath, through clenched teeth. Stupid, ignorant, macho young fool. Oh how she was going to kick his backside when they were outside once more…
“You make great claims, young Master,” growled Krayliss, with considerable displeasure. “What does a Verenthane know of such things? On what authority does a follower of the lowlands order claim knowledge of the ancient spirits?”
“I was there, my Lord,” Jaryd retorted with all too little fear. Did he know who he faced? Challenging Lord Krayliss within his own hall was not the same as defeating wooden swords at tournaments. In these parts, men fought to kill, not for games. “I have eyes. I tell you only what I saw.”
“Even if true, it proves nothing!” retorted another man, from the far side of the long table. “The spirits are not guides for women! They never have been!”
“Spirits alone were never mentioned,” said another, low and soft, as if fearing the presence of unspoken, unseen power. “Only the Synnich was mentioned.”
There was about the room another flurry of spirit signs and the muttering of oaths. In some faces now, there was real fear. Krayliss surveyed the commotion with a dark, furrowed stare.
“I don't believe her!” pronounced another. “The men of Hadryn are bastards, yet their swordsmanship is unquestioned! Perhaps only the smallest handful of men could defeat so many! No woman has such skill with a blade to take four in the manner described! Only a woman of Saalshen could manage such a feat, and a great one at that!”
“Exactly!” retorted another. “A serrin woman could manage such a feat because the serrin walk with the spirits!”
An uproar followed, men shouting argument and counterargument at close, heated range. In several quarters, pushing broke out, quickly separated by cooler heads before it could escalate. To Sasha's left, Damon was staring about in disbelief. To her right, Kessligh simply folded his arms and waited, as many times he had waited for a much younger Sashandra Lenayin to cease her raging tempers before insisting just as firmly upon the very thing that had caused them. Sasha simply watched Lord Krayliss, unafraid now of meeting his gaze. Krayliss stared back, unmoved within the commotion.
Perhaps he expected her gaze to drop. Anger burned in Sasha's stare. A warning, when the others were not looking. And it was Krayliss's eyes that widened, in surprise and anger, from the power of that meeting.
“Enough!” he yelled, a broad fist held high, and the clamour eased as quickly as it had begun. “Such debates should wait for a later hour,” he said darkly. “We have other business to attend to. Prince Damon rides to serve the justice of Baen-Tar. Little enough hope do we of the Goeren-yai have in the justice of Verenthane kings…”
It was said with great sarcasm and brought a harsh laugh from many of those surrounding.
“He comes to us with a mind full of questions!” Krayliss announced, in louder, defiantly jovial tones. “He wishes to know the cause of our old friend Lord Rashyd's death, and the reason his son stands upon our gate with his blade in the turf, stamping his little temper tantrum now that papa is no longer about to spank his skinny backside!”
Another laugh from the men and some mugs were raised in salute. Krayliss turned to Damon with defiant confidence. “Yes, I slew Lord Rashyd! His priests came to harass the Gessyl townsfolk and I rode to see them off! Rashyd crossed our border uninvited and confronted us! He spurred his horse against my people and I slew him for his insolence! And what, Prince of Lenayin, shall you do about it?”
“Take you to Baen-Tar for a judgment at the king's pleasure,” Damon replied. Sasha blinked at Damon, unable to believe she'd heard such a decisive statement, so coolly delivered, in the face of such defiance. For a moment, the entire hall seemed hushed with similar surprise.
Krayliss threw back his head and laughed. “The young prince has some balls after all!” he roared, to an eruption of laughter that shook the ceiling. “And how do you propose to achieve this monumental feat, young Lenayin?”
“I shall await the arrival of my line companies,” Damon said icily, “and we shall join forces with the Hadryn. Should you refuse to comply with my order, we shall kill you all.”
Another silence followed. Sasha's stomach tried rapidly to tie itself in knots, to her great displeasure. There was a fine line, where most men of her experience were concerned, between balls and stupidity. Only Kessligh could be reliably expected to find that precarious balance with consistency.
“My father's law is quite clear,” Damon continued. “Lord Rashyd deserved a censure for his conduct. He did not deserve death. Your punishment can only be decided by the king himself, upon a full presentation of the facts. My task, I see now, is to take you there within the custody of the crown. Should you refuse, your life is forfeit. I therefore suggest, Lord of Taneryn, that you do not refuse. For the sake of your people.”
&n
bsp; Lord Krayliss's already vast girth seemed to swell even larger with rage. “And from what time have the Verenthanes of Baen-Tar cared for the people of Taneryn?” he snarled, bushy eyebrows and beard seeming to bristle like a great wild animal. “Even now the king calls a great Rathynal, to force his tame Verenthane lords to approve his decision to march to war in the lowlands! A war in the Bacosh, with whom we have no interest whatsoever! A war for Verenthane causes and the profit of lowlands merchants! With such do the Verenthanes of the towns and cities seek to protect their ill-gotten wealth and prestige—with the blood of poor Goeren-yai farmers who have no interest in your foreign causes and false titles!
“Who but me will speak for the Goeren-yai? Who but me is left to speak?” He roared to the assembled men. “It was royal Verenthanes like this one who appointed only Verenthane lords to the provinces! It was they who belittled us, scattered us, patronised and left us to our fates at the hands of Hadryn tyrants! Of all the Udalyn descendants, I am the greatest of rank and the greatest of honour! Who but me will speak for the true, the ancient, the rightful people of Lenayin!”
The roar that followed paled all those previous, a deafening thunder that threatened to split Sasha's ears. There followed the heavy, rhythmic stamping of boots on flagstones, accompanied by the hard clapping of hands. Krayliss surveyed his new commotion, wiping his beard of the spittle that now hung there, residue of his outburst. Pride burned in his eyes, vain and spiteful. This was a man, Sasha saw only too well, who was prepared to die for his cause. No matter how many others he took with him to his pyre.
“Entertaining,” Sasha remarked as they walked from beneath the gates of Halleryn. “Nothing like a bit of open hostility to develop the appetite.”
“I've had worse meals,” Damon muttered, tugging on his riding gloves for warmth.
“When?” Sasha asked, pulling her cloak more firmly about her.
“Anytime someone thinks it a grand idea to get me together with Maryd Banys of Ranash, and her mother.”
Sasha frowned at that. The sound of the wind above the vast, moonless dark of the lake held an eerie power. Yet, for all the frozen chill of the open night, it was a relief indeed to be free of that hall and the dark stares and muttered, suspicious conversation about the long table. “Maryd is the eldest daughter?” she asked.
Damon grunted in reply.
“I've made her acquaintance,” Jaryd remarked helpfully. He'd been attempting to appear untroubled all night but, to Sasha's eye, he looked unsettled. For a young man previously uninterested in the lordly affairs of Lenayin, such encounters were surely a lot to digest. “She's very pretty, think you not, Prince Damon?”
“Aye, she's pretty,” Damon muttered. “The wits of a chicken and the charm of a leech, but she's pretty. Dinner with Krayliss was a pleasant affair compared to that.” Sasha shot Kessligh a glance and could have sworn she saw him smile.
“So Father wishes you to marry a Ranash girl?” Sasha questioned further, with considerable distaste. “A northerner?”
“Koenyg's idea,” Damon said, gazing off across the dark lake as the road approached the shore.
“Two northern sisters-in-law,” Sasha said with displeasure. “I'm not sure I could stand it. Wyna Telgar is enough.”
“Poor girl,” Damon retorted. “You wouldn't have to share her bed for the rest of your life, you've nothing to complain about.”
“I think we must be talking of two different Maryd Banyses,” Jaryd said quizzically. “The girl I mean is sweet-faced, black-haired with blue eyes and a full bosom…”
“And what interesting topics have you discussed with her, Master Jaryd?” Damon asked. “Have you spent more than a heartbeat in her presence? Or merely admired her bosom from afar?”
“It's a very nice bosom, Your Highness.”
“Master Jaryd never met a bosom with which he couldn't hold a conversation,” said Sasha with a sideways glance.
Jaryd grinned. “Yours is disappointingly quiet.”
“You just haven't asked it the right questions.” Jaryd laughed. “These treaties of marriage are ludicrous,” Sasha continued. “Ranash will obey the throne simply because their lord's daughter shares a prince's bed? Hadryn's behaviour has barely changed since Koenyg married Wyna…and little Dany now gives them a Hadryn in the line of succession.”
“The other lords will not be happy if I marry another northern girl,” said Damon. Her brother's eyes were joyless in the wind-blown torchlight. Damon the petulant, he'd been called before. Lately, however, he'd been Damon the grim. “This line of princes was going to be a rich vein to be mined, but Krystoff died and Wylfred now thinks to take the holy vows, and suddenly, with Koenyg wedded, five available princes are only two. It's just me and Myklas left, and I fear the competition will be fierce.”
“It's the creeping feudalisation of Lenayin,” said Kessligh.
Jaryd frowned. “The what?”
“Before King Soros,” said Kessligh, “there were no lords and titles, just chieftains, clans and regional allegiances that split into warfare as often as they came together. But Soros didn't only bring the gods from the lowlands, he also brought nobility, land titles and all the rest. He thought he was bringing civilisation to the barbarians. Lowlands civilisation. Now, the lords see that their powers do not match those of their lowlands cousins and they push for more. In the name of civilisation, of course.”
“It'll never work,” Sasha said firmly. “Lord Aynsfar of Neysh tried it just a few years ago, brought a hundred hire-swords from the lowlands and declared himself ruler of his ‘ancestral lands’. But Goeren-yai came from near and far, killed his hire-swords and took his head. No man or woman of Lenayin will be anyone's serf—it might be the lowlands way, but not here.”
“You're talking of the murder of Lord Aynsfar!” Jaryd realised, suddenly aghast. “How can you…how can you approve of that barbarity? They tied him down and took his limbs one joint at a time until…”
“I heard it was a swift blow to the neck,” Sasha interrupted, turning to walk backward on the undulating grass, facing him. “I also heard that he was warned repeatedly, but gave only threats in return. Do the lowlands ways appeal to you, Jaryd? Would you like to inherit lands for your family? Allow minor lords to levy the royal tax instead of the king?”
Jaryd gave a protesting smile, but Damon's eyes were now on him as well, and curious. “I…I hadn't given it that much thought…but, I mean, what's the harm? Lowlands customs work very well and…”
“In the lowlands they work well,” said Damon.
“No harm?” Sasha added, incredulously. “Would you like to be ruled by a succession of lords, ladies and knights even before we get to Baen-Tar royalty? It was a great enough feat to get ordinary Lenays to swear allegiance to one king in Baen-Tar, you'd add all these other fools on top of that and expect them to accept it?”
“But…” Jaryd was flustered now. Sasha doubted he'd ever been challenged to justify his own privilege before in his life. “But the noble families already have authority over their regions…”
“Horse shit,” said Sasha. “The nobles derive their authority from the king and from each other, and that's only if they pray to the lowlands gods and have loads and loads of money to begin with. No one ever asked the rural folk, Jaryd. In their eyes, the nobility is just another strange little clan, all interbred and foreign, and nothing to do with their daily lives.
“They pay taxes to the king because he's the king, and the small tax to the provincial lords because they're the king's men, and because it occasionally does some good with roads and irrigation channels and bridges and the like. The rest of them are just dogs around the dinner table as far as the villagers are concerned, whining for scraps.”
“But a noble lord offers protection to his people with his forces!” Jaryd protested.
“In the Bacosh, they use armies paid for by the peasants’ coin to murder and terrorise them,” Sasha said firmly, still walking backward. “In the Baco
sh, the ordinary folk have neither the weapons nor the skills to fight back. Lenayin is vastly different. They don't need your protection, Jaryd, and they certainly don't want it, and they'll fight you tooth and nail if you try to impose it upon them.”
She nearly spoiled her speech by tripping on uneven ground, stumbling to recover her balance. “Just…please,” she added, skipping sideways, “as a favour to me, look about you on this ride. Talk to your low-ranked men. Insist they be honest with you. It's not only sad that you should misunderstand your own people, it's dangerous.”
They crossed the wooden bridge once more, the Hadryn camp laid before them, a flickering line of campfires and shadowy activity.
“My Lords,” said one of the Royal Guards as they approached the main line of tents, drawing their attention forward. Rising from the light of a large campfire were a small cluster of well-dressed Hadryn men, buckles and clasps gleaming in the firelight. They strode forward, a wall of weaponry and self-importance.
“Did your negotiations go well, Prince Damon?” came the loud voice of Usyn Telgar. Some of his men laughed with ugly humour. “Negotiation,” in the northern tongues, had never been an honourable word. It reeked of compromise and cowardice. The Royal Guard stopped and parted, Damon coming forward to confront the young Telgar directly.
“Well enough,” Damon said. “Did you wish to raise some matter with me?”
“Your sister,” said another man, with great sarcasm, “appears to claim the title of saviour of the Goeren-yai!” The new speaker was dressed in the travelling finery of northern nobility, short-haired with a little, trimmed goatee. He'd been drinking, Sasha judged. They all had. “A message arrived from Perys just now, apparently she inflicted great carnage there in the name of pagan spirits! These claims are an insult and, in the name of the devout House of Varan, I demand an apology!”
“You'll get nothing,” Damon replied. “My sister is not responsible for the claims others make. I suggest, Master Farys Varan, that you do not raise your voice in her direction again.”
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