The villagers gave them good, fresh fruit and some delicious fresh bread. The children ate and the adults began jabbering in their strange, foreign tongue, with many gestures toward the children. After a while, one went running back to the village.
“Daryd, what are they doing?”
“I don't know,” said Daryd, watching the men's expressions and gestures intently. Every now and then he heard a word that sounded familiar, but he didn't know if that was because it was the same word, or just a coincidence. “These are Goeren-yai men, they'll be friendly.”
He realised that he didn't even know what province they were in. Valhanan? Or was it Tyree? One of the two, he decided. Lenay was spoken here, but these men probably spoke a native tongue as well. He wished again that he could speak another language. Everyone else in Lenayin seemed to be able to.
Soon the man who had run off came back with five women. The women greeted them with as much wonder as the men and considerably more fuss. They all had long hair, a mixture of braids, loose locks and some beads and ribbons. Their dresses were coarse weave, sewn together with some light, tanned skins—without the decorative embroidery and beading he was accustomed to seeing on his mother and aunts.
The women made a particular fuss over Rysha, which Rysha seemed to find much less intimidating than she'd found the men. One woman produced a pair of child's pants and Rysha was ushered away to the privacy of some bushes to pull them on.
An older woman remained behind to look at Daryd with a beady eye, and talk with the men. Her hair was long and grey, with an important-looking topknot, and she walked with a decorated staff. The men were very polite with her. Daryd reckoned she might be a spirit talker, as the staff decorations held elements of all the spirit levels—feathers of birds from the sky, rocks from the earth, smooth pebbles shaped by water, and beads of polished wood or nuts from trees. When she hobbled close to peer at him, Daryd bowed low. And when he straightened, everyone looked pleased, so he knew it had been the right thing to do.
When Rysha returned, wearing her new pants under her dress, a new argument ensued. Some of the women seemed quite adamant about something. The men seemed more doubtful. The spirit talker just watched and listened.
Finally, one of the women turned to Rysha and smiled in that way adults did when trying to explain something to children. Daryd felt immediately suspicious. “Endrynet chyl,” she said sweetly. And pointed back down the slope, to where the village was surely located. “Karamyt tervyst'al. Selysh.”
The woman mimed putting her head down on some pillows, palms pressed together, hands to one cheek.
“Daryd, what's she saying?” Rysha sounded nervous.
“Maybe she thinks we should have a rest,” Daryd said dubiously. But the woman was only looking at Rysha, not Daryd. “We must ride,” Daryd said loudly, and pointed on in the direction they'd been travelling. “Baen-Tar. We must ride to Baen-Tar. King Torvaal.”
They seemed to understand that, at least, for worried looks were exchanged. The woman tried again with a longer sentence, yet no more comprehensible. Her entreaty was all the more gentle and heartfelt, and again, directed only at Rysha.
“I think she thinks we should rest,” Rysha said uncertainly. “I am very sleepy.”
“We've no time, Rysha.” Daryd's frustration mounted. “All the Udalyn will have gone behind the wall, but the wall won't last forever if the Hadryn attack properly! I heard Papa say so. We have to get the king to send help!”
The woman seemed to take Rysha's uncertainty for a good sign and took her by the hand. “Endrynet chyl. Amath ul lysh to wayalesh tai.” She pulled Rysha gently forward, away from Daryd.
“No,” said Daryd, his alarm rising. And then he realised what she was suggesting. “No!” he shouted, a hand on the hilt of his knife. “No, you let her go! You let her go right now!”
The woman said something in alarm, a plea for the others to reason with him, while pulling Rysha onward. Rysha pulled back, frozen with fear. Daryd pulled out his knife and pointed it at the woman, his hand shaking.
“She's my sister!” he shouted. “She belongs with me! You can't have her. Let her go!”
There followed a lot of shouting, with the woman protesting, backed by several other women. Finally the bushy-bearded man intervened, impatiently removing the woman's hand from Rysha's. Rysha ran back to Daryd and clutched his arm instead. The woman looked upset, both hands to her mouth. The bushy-bearded man was saying something forcefully to the woman, in which the word “Udalyn” featured prominently. Goeren-yai men seemed to have a high opinion of the Udalyn. The threat apparently over, Daryd sheathed his knife before anyone could notice how much his hand was shaking.
“Daryd, what's going on?” Rysha asked shakily, still clutching his arm.
“Don't be scared, Rysha. I think she just thought it would be safer for you to stay here in the village with her. She was trying to protect you, I think. Mothers are like that.”
“She's not my mother!” Rysha protested, upset. “I've got a mother!”
“I know, Rysha.”
“I want to stay with you! Daryd, don't let them take me away!”
“I won't, Rysha. Shush, everything's all right.” But everything was not all right, because the quaver in Rysha's voice when she said the word “mother” caused his own throat to tighten and his lip to tremble. He swallowed it, violently.
The villagers brought yet more food and some fodder to give the horses a break from wild grass. Extra fodder was packed into saddlebags and the spirit talker made an appeal to the local spirits…presumably to watch over them, Daryd thought. The woman who had tried to take Rysha still looked upset. Daryd suddenly found himself wondering what his own mother would be feeling. Her son and her little girl would be missing. Perhaps she'd fear they were dead, killed by the Hadryn. Suddenly, he thought he understood.
He walked to the woman and reached for her hand. She took it. “My sister,” he said helplessly, pointing to Rysha as she stood by Essey, waiting to mount. “I can't leave my sister. She's all I have.” He pointed to his heart. The woman's eyes filled with tears and she bent, and kissed him on both cheeks. That was when he knew for sure that the Udalyn were not the only people who loved their family. He could only hope that King Torvaal felt the same.
DAMON MADE HIS WAY toward the lagand field. Downslope, the great tent city spread across the paddocks like a forest of pointy white mushrooms on a green hillside. Flags flew above each provincial contingent, colourful banners against a summer blue sky. The air was warm, the breeze welcome, and the hills beneath the walls of Baen-Tar were alive with colour and life. It was a wide rectangle of hillside, by no means an even surface, but the slope was overall quite gentle. Talleryn posts marked the goals, one pair at each end, with horses thundering across the intervening space, weaving and crossing in pursuit of the ball. The scaffolding caught Damon's eye—an amazing work of woodcraft, erected in just six days by Goeren-yai craftsmen. He guessed it might hold as many as six hundred people on its rowed benches.
Colours draped across different sections marked out the seats where each province's nobles would sit. The royal box was central, draped in green and purple, and flanked by several Royal Guardsmen. Serving maids made their way up and down the steps with platters of wine and food, and more crowds gathered about the firepits erected behind the scaffold, where kitchen staff served snacks and drinks, and prepared whole legs of lamb and beef for roasted lunch to come.
A pair of red flags marked the entry point for competitors, where the surrounding spectators kept clear. Damon recognised Jaryd amongst the gathered horsemen and cantered that way. Tyree men greeted him—perhaps half the Tyree team were from the Falcon Guard, including Sergeant Garys, a stout Goeren-yai man whom he knew and respected. The other half of the fourteen-men side were Tyree nobility.
“Wonderful morning for a contest,” Jaryd remarked as Damon dismounted alongside. Damon had contested with the Tyree team for four days now and, somewhere along
the line, “Your Highness” had vanished from Jaryd's vocabulary. Damon cared not at all. “We have Banneryd this morning, half of them are heavy cavalry. We'll have some bruises this evening.”
A handler tended Damon's horse while another handed him his bundle of equipment. Damon strapped on the metal forearm guards, gazing across the field at the game in progress. “Fyden plays Taneryn,” he observed, recognising the colours. “What score?” There was a scoring platform up on the scaffold, but he could not see it from this angle.
“Taneryn by eight to four, I believe. It's a long match.” Disparagingly. “Perhaps they should play hourglass rules or else we'll be here till lunchtime.” Under royal rules the game did not stop until one team scored ten goals.
Jaryd seemed grimmer this morning. He tightened his forearm strap now, his helm under one arm. Not quite as tall as Damon in his riding boots, but more broadly and powerfully built. Sofy had told Damon of some of the rumours circulating, that Jaryd was on the outs with his father, and there had been threats and insults traded. Jaryd Nyvar's once shiny reputation had been tarnished. Apparently, when questioned on the death of Lieutenant Reynan, he'd not been saying what some others had been wanting to hear. Damon looked across at one man in particular—Pyter Pelyn, amidst a cluster of young noble friends. Pyter had been Lieutenant Reynan Pelyn's cousin. The last four days of contest, he and Jaryd had barely spoken a word to each other.
Damon completed a count of the assembled riders, as groups of giggling noble girls gathered nearby, pointing and whispering. “We're a rider short,” he realised.
“Danyth's shoulder came up sore from yesterday's fall,” said Jaryd. He swiped with his hook, a shiny, curved length of wood as long as his forearm, with a wide blade like a shovel, and a long, sharp edge at the end. No question about it, Damon thought—Jaryd was angry this morning. He wondered what had happened. “I found a replacement.”
“No shortage of those,” said Damon. To represent one's province in a great Rathynal tournament was an honour indeed. Although, it was the tradition in such tournaments that the princes of Baen-Tar would not take one side, but rather would spread their number across the various teams of cenayin. To be royalty was to take no side. Damon was pleased to know that he, at least, had qualified on merit—he did not feel any awe of the Tyree men he rode with, except perhaps Jaryd. “Who'd you get?”
“Over there,” said Jaryd, pointing toward the cluster of replacement horses, chewing and drinking from temporary mangers and water troughs. Damon looked, and saw two people astride the same horse. The first was Sofy, laughing with delight as the rider behind guided her hands on the reins and indicated when to apply the heels with a tap on the leg. Most unbecoming of a Verenthane princess, Sofy's dress was pulled up nearly to her knees and folks in the surrounding crowd were staring. Surely that could not be a man behind? Archbishop Dalryn would have his head…
The horse turned and Damon saw short dark hair, a lithe figure in pants and jacket, with a blade strapped diagonally to her back. He gave Jaryd a disbelieving look. Jaryd snorted and tightened his glove.
Sasha had arrived yesterday afternoon, accompanied by two male friends from Baerlyn, itself something of a minor scandal. Koenyg was unhappy that one was Teriyan, who Damon recalled from his stay in Baerlyn as a smart-mouth. The other was a gangly lad who had worked the ranch with Sasha for years.
Kessligh was not with her, and that too had sent the rumourmongers scurrying like rats in a granary. Sasha said he'd gone to Petrodor, but rumours suggested he was either dead, in hiding, riding north to do battle with the Hadryn single-handedly, or that he and Sasha had had a lover's tiff and he'd abandoned her. Some suggested she was with child and he'd left for Petrodor because his task was done. And other rumours as well, too stupid to mention.
Damon had found last night's family dinner a chore. Alythia had sent icy barbs Sasha's way and Sasha had replied with hot ones. Koenyg had asked suspicious questions of Kessligh and this Teriyan Tremel. Father had said little—a dark, sombre sentinel at the end of the table—while Wylfred had attempted to explain to Sasha why it was not proper for a young Verenthane lady to travel alone with two male companions. Only Myklas had seemed to enjoy it, the way any sixteen-year-old boy might enjoy watching dogs fight, or a carriage load of history scholars falling off a cliff.
If a strong family was the core foundation of virtue, as the Verenthanes insisted, then Damon reckoned his family's house might have all the godly virtue of a Petrodor brothel.
“I realise this is a stupid question,” Damon remarked, turning to Jaryd, “but is that wise?”
Jaryd shrugged. “As the only Nasi-Keth present, she is officially the Nasi-Keth's representative in this Rathynal. Form dictates one person from each represented party should be invited to participate in the tournament.”
“And that answers my question how?”
Jaryd scowled. “I had a bad opinion of her myself, once. Then I saw her swordwork with my own eyes and I came to know her at least a little, person to person. She forced me to reconsider. The audience here today is a little larger, but she deserves the chance to do the same.”
Sasha had torn strips off many a young man's pride in junior lagand tournaments across the years, in Damon's memory, and people had not loved her any more for it. But the look in Jaryd's eyes suggested he was not to be argued with. As team captain, he could pick whomever he wished.
A rising gasp came from the crowd, then a roar as the Taneryn scored. Damon wondered if Lord Krayliss himself was playing. Sasha and Sofy's horse came trotting over and Sasha leaped off, then helped Sofy from the saddle.
“You'd best prepare, M'Lady,” Jaryd told Sasha, pointing to her bundled gear. “One more score and we're on.”
“Do you always tuck your pants into your socks?” Sofy asked the young champion, with mild curiosity.
Jaryd looked down, confusedly. “The…I mean, a man's pants can become entangled in the stirrups, Your Highness. Or worse, in your opponent's stirrups, or their spurs if they wear them.” He managed a mischievous smile. “A man's pants have been known to come clean off, in such an encounter.”
“I should not want to see that!” Sofy remarked, in a tone that suggested much the opposite. “Sasha, why did you not inform me as to this most unexpected aspect of lagand before?”
“Because it's such a boring, bloodthirsty activity,” Sasha replied, fastening armguards over her shirt sleeves. “You said so yourself.”
“Well, perhaps one could learn to appreciate it better,” Sofy said mildly, with a mischievous glance at Jaryd. “If one were educated properly.”
“It's just a bunch of sweaty men on horses whacking each other with sticks,” Damon said dryly. Sofy had never liked lagand. Her tastes were more refined. “Why are you boring yourself with us savages, don't you have a poetry recital to attend? A Larosan ode to how we are all but smelly undergarments dangling from the tree of life?”
Sofy scowled at him. “Sarcasm is the surest sign of savagery, dear brother,” she said disdainfully. “I wish to see my sister ride, is that so uncommon?”
A tangled melee of horse came thundering by, punctuated by the yells and grunting exertion of men. Past the waiting riders, Damon caught a glimpse of wild-haired Goeren-yai men of Taneryn astride their little dussieh, their lagand hooks flailing.
“Here,” said Sasha, handing Sofy her sword in its scabbard. “There's no swords allowed on the field. Don't hand it to a guard to mind, I'd rather you kept it yourself. In hand.”
“Is it valuable?” Sofy asked dubiously, taking the scabbard with careful hands.
“It's Saalshen-forged and at least five hundred years old,” Sasha told her. “Probably it could buy every horse on the field today.”
Sofy pulled the blade a short way from its sheath. “Five hundred years? It looks so new!”
“Careful! Don't play with it. And for spirits’ sake don't try the edge, you'll lose a finger.”
“Okay, okay!” Sofy slapped the
hilt back into the scabbard. “I'll be watching from the box. I made Myklas promise he'd sit with me for a while…he's playing later today for Baen-Tar against Isfayen, his friend Master Serys invited him.”
“He's been playing for Baen-Tar province with Serys for the past four days,” Damon told her.
“Well, I didn't know, okay?” Sofy pouted. “I've had other things to do. Anyhow, Myklas said he'd explain the rules to me.”
“Rules, Your Highness?” Jaryd asked with a mischievous glint.
“Oh, Master Jaryd!” Sofy scolded. “Noblemen are such savages!”
“And noblewomen find it so distressing,” said Jaryd, with a glance toward the clustered, whispering girls nearby.
Sofy looked amused. “Best that you tighten your belt, Heir of Tyree. I'd hate to see a young man lose his pants before such an admiring crowd.” She gave Sasha and Damon each a kiss on the cheek and departed in a swirl of skirts. A pair of Royal Guardsmen followed and the crowd parted before them.
“Am I mistaken,” Jaryd said uncertainly, “or was the princess flirting with me just now?”
“A princess of Lenayin does not flirt,” said Damon. “Everyone knows that.”
“I've heard it said that a princess of Lenayin does not fart, either,” Sasha said cheerfully, pulling on her heavy gloves. “But I happen to know differently.”
“Master Jaryd!” came a new, angry voice. Damon turned to find Pyter Pelyn pushing past the jostle of horses. “This is Danyth's replacement?” He pointed his lagand hook at Sasha.
“You have a problem with that?” Jaryd asked.
“You insult me, and you insult my family's honour! I'll not ride with this…”
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