“Damon's idea too, and Koenyg agreed.”
“Aye, couldn't be happier to be rid of you, I'm sure.”
Sister Mardola cleared her throat. “The gentleman will kindly speak in a lowland tongue in my prescence,” she announced. They had of course been speaking Lenay.
Jaryd frowned at the sister. “Who's the old bat?” he asked Sofy in their native tongue.
Sofy rolled her eyes in exasperation. “The gentleman does not speak a lowlands tongue,” she lied. “I will speak with him as we can both understand.”
She gestured impatiently for Jaryd to come and sit on a leather-upholstered chair. Sister Mardola followed, and maids rushed to attend them, and offer drinks, fruit, and biscuits. Jaryd accepted all, hungry as ever, with more disbelieving mirth at all the activity.
“Well, this is a lovely arrangement,” he remarked.
“Will you just stop it?” Sofy retorted. It didn't help that he looked so…well, good, she admitted to herself in frustration. His eyes were alive with unreasonable cheer for these circumstances. Seeing him so carefree, she could feel resentment building. “Why are you here?”
“Because neither Sasha nor Damon feels particularly comfortable with you being here all alone.”
“As you can see,” Sofy said coldly, “I am very far from alone.”
Jaryd glanced about, and sipped his tea. “That's a matter of opinion.”
“Jaryd, I don't know what you think you're doing here, but I'm on a very important mission. Tracato is a treasure, and I intend to see it saved. I hear the Lord Alfriedo Renine is being proclaimed the new lord of all Rhodaan and Tracato, and I hear that he is a very intelligent boy. I will negotiate with him and I will find a way to bring him and all of Rhodaan into my husband's fold, with as little damage to all parties as possible.”
Jaryd's expression sobered a little. “And what does Prince Dafed say about this?”
Sofy smoothed the dress in her lap. “Dafed is a warrior,” she said. “He will negotiate military matters. He has little interest in other things.”
She was not pleased that Balthaar's brother Dafed had come too. He was not pleased, either, to be sent away from the advancing army in order to collect this trophy for his brother's new crown. But Tracato was close to Elisse, and the Elissians had not been destroyed as a fighting force in the recent war against Rhodaan. There were alliances to forge, and Dafed was here to forge them, then to lead the Elissians south, to rejoin Balthaar in his advance. Dafed, Sofy was reasonably sure, would not get in her way.
Jaryd shook his head in faint disbelief. “Sofy, your husband's priests want all of this destroyed. You've ridden in the Bacosh column, you've seen what even the common soldiers are doing to Rhodaan….”
“They appeared quite restrained from what I saw.”
In an instant, Jaryd's good humour vanished. He regarded her with something she had not seen him direct at her before. Not quite contempt, but a distinct lack of respect. Perhaps pity.
“It may look that way from safe within your gilded cage,” he said coolly. “I can assure you otherwise.”
Sofy felt cold. She looked about in distraction, and hugged her shawl closer. And suddenly, in desperation, she came to the edge of her chair. “Oh, Jaryd, I know it's hard! These two peoples, they've been separated by so much hatred and mistrust for so long…but I have to try, Jaryd! I've always been a good peacemaker, I've done it between my siblings, I've sometimes even done it between Lenay lords, and they're no easy mark. Surely I can find some common ground between my husband's new rule, and the old ways of Rhodaan…and possibly Enora and Ilduur too one day!”
Jaryd sighed. He nodded to her jewellery, and the Idys Mark on her forehead. “You observe the Idys too. The old Lenay ways.”
Sofy nodded enthusiastically. “There was some opposition, but I told them that whatever my new title, I am Lenay and I shall practise the old Lenay traditions also. All new Lenay brides observe the Idys, and I shall too.”
The Idys Mark was a dark oval spot on her forehead, in the shape of an eye. The Idys was one of the old spirits, thought to bring fertility and wisdom alike.
“Do you see, Jaryd?” she continued. “I'm trying to bring peoples and customs together. I am Princess Regent of the Bacosh, and I observe their customs, yet I am also a princess of Lenayin. I can show by example that two such different peoples and cultures can exist side by side. And if I can bring that example to Tracato, perhaps I can save that great treasure, and it can enlighten all of the Bacosh and far beyond!”
Jaryd said nothing. Sofy did not think that she had convinced him. But she could see that he was not surprised at her passion, and indeed, wore that familiar look of wry defeat. He knew her so well. Perhaps it would not be a bad thing to have him on this trip after all.
“And how about you?” she asked more kindly. “You've been spending a lot more time amongst the Goeren-yai of late. Do you feel yourself a true Goeren-yai now?”
Jaryd shrugged. “I don't know,” he sighed. “And that's the wonderful thing about it.” Sofy frowned, not understanding. Jaryd smiled. “No one cares. My Goeren-yai comrades, they don't quiz me about my beliefs, they don't threaten to expel me if I don't know all the words to their tales or all the beats to their rhythm. They know me as a warrior and as a man, and that's enough for them.”
“But there are many customs and practices amongst the Goeren-yai,” Sofy pressed. Jaryd could be so naive in his lack of understanding these complexities, and she was suddenly worried. “If you are to call yourself Goeren-yai and be accepted by them, you must take their beliefs and customs seriously, Jaryd….”
“I take it as seriously as they do,” Jaryd said with amusement. “The ancient ways aren't about reciting this text or that song, it's about heart.” He rapped himself on his armoured chest. “I may not have much, but I have that.”
“So you're happy then?”
“I think I am. I don't miss all of this shit, I can tell you that.” He nodded toward the temporary shrine. Sister Mardola cleared her throat, disapprovingly. She did not understand his words, but she knew a look of contempt when she saw one. Jaryd ignored her. “Sofy, you can't change the world, you know. Some people are shit. You can't make them nice by setting a good example.”
“Jaryd, you Lenay men always think that violence is the only solution to everything. Why don't we try ending hatred with love for a change, instead of always using swords?”
“Because it doesn't work,” said Jaryd, unruffled. “Men don't plough fields because they're violent to the soil, men plough fields because lovingly asking the soils to part does nothing. Besides which, it's not only Lenay men who think so, there's Yasmyn, and Sasha.”
“Both of whom could use a little more feminine sensibility,” Sofy sniffed.
“And where would that have gotten Sasha or the Udalyn against the Hadryn?”
Sofy rolled her eyes. “The serrin agree with me,” she said stubbornly.
“Aye, they did—look where it's gotten them. Backs to the wall and a sword at their throat. They showered these lands with love and your husband repaid them with invasion and slaughter.”
Sofy found herself blinking back angry tears. Jaryd was from that other life, the one now lost to her. It wasn't fair that he should come here and do this to her. She had to make this life work, but he, apparently content in the other, kept crossing that divide and shattering all her carefully constructed dreams.
Jaryd left the Princess Regent's tent in frustration, and made his way back to his camp. Knights stood in full armour about the tent, and would do so all night in shifts. Jaryd did not envy them, just suiting up could take such men an age. The rest of the camp was clatter and activity, and far too many servants and wagons for Jaryd's liking. There was a firm perimeter set against any serrin attack, and they camped in the middle of a wide field so none could sneak up on them. But if the serrin were to attack in force, he did not know if there were enough defenders to stop them, and all these cooks and maids would not help.
His campfire was near the perimeter beside a wagon, where they could shelter if it rained. There sat Jandlys and Asym, and a noble girl in a dress.
She stood up as Jaryd approached, and stuck out her hand. “You must be Jaryd Nyvar. I'm Jeddie. Lady Jelendria Horseth of Tournea, daughter of Lord Horseth, anyhow. I'm pleased to meet you.”
She spoke Torovan, which Jaryd had only just pretended not to know. He shook her hand cautiously, and invited her to resume her seat on a saddle.
“I'm a friend of your Princess Sofy,” Jeddie continued earnestly. “She is quite amazing, isn't she? My father is a grand patron of the arts; he has always wanted to see Tracato, and he was quite taken with Sofy. He is riding with the Regent at the war of course, but I did pester him, and he sent me. He said that the Princess Regent would need a female friend amongst so many men.”
Jeddie was quite young, perhaps Sofy's age. She had a narrow face and a large nose, not especially pretty, and her manner was a little odd. Jaryd had seen one or two girls like this amongst the noble families in his home of Tyree, girls given a good education who, in the absence of real work or responsibilities, had fallen in love with matters of academics or arts. He recalled his own father, the late Great Lord of Tyree, complaining that such girls became unmarriageable and useless, more interested in their passions than in their duties as noble ladies. Proof that women should not be educated at all, he'd said.
“Why were you riding with the army?” Jaryd asked, as Jandlys forked him some bacon from their pan, and passed it over with a hunk of bread.
“My father made rather a large commitment of men to the war,” said Jeddie, matter-of-factly. “The household was weakened, and he wanted his family with him.”
“And you want to help Sofy to save Tracato?” asked Jandlys from around a mouthful of food. Jandlys was even larger than his father, Great Lord Krayliss of Taneryn, had been.
“Well, yes. One does enjoy the arts. One does hear that Tracato is quite the wonder for such things.”
“Because it's filled with serrin, who all the fucking priests here want to kill.” Jaryd threw another log on the fire in exasperation.
Jeddie's eyes were wide. She cleared her throat and looked around for anyone who might hear. “Well, I'm not sure that they want all of them dead….”
“And that's a fact is it?” Jaryd cut her off, incredulously. “You grew up in a nice noble household in…Tournea, did you say?” A timid nod from Jeddie. “Your priests educated you?”
“Some. But also my father, and some masters from the town.”
“Well, that's good, your father seems a good man. And what did the priests teach you of the serrin?”
Jeddie looked at her boots. For a moment there was just the crackling of the fire, and the sounds of the camp. “But there must be some accommodation!” she insisted abruptly, a little desperately. “I mean, there has been so much in Rhodaan that has been successful and good, surely! My father always said so. Surely we can find some way to accommodate the best of Tracato beneath the Regent's rule!”
“You're fucking crazy—you're just like Sofy,” Jaryd sighed. Jeddie cringed, evidently not accustomed to being spoken to in that tone. “Religious people, they're not interested in facts. They already know what's right, and if the facts don't fit, they'll just twist and hammer them until they do. The serrin made this place a success all right, it was such a success it's a huge black eye to the Regent, the priests, everyone from your world. They want it destroyed, that's the only way they can restore the world to the way they think it ought to be.”
Jeddie said nothing.
“Don't you fear him, lassie,” said Jandlys. “If our Sofy's told you anything about her people, she's told you you've nothing to fear from us lot of ruffians, we just talk a bit loud is all.”
“Oh, I know that,” Jeddie said hurriedly, but she gave Jandlys a grateful smile. “I know that I'm safer amongst Lenay warriors than anyone else in Rhodia.”
“That's damn right!” Jandlys agreed. “Yuan Jaryd here just don't like noble Verenthanes, that's all. Old history.”
“I know,” Jeddie said quietly. “You used to be one, but they dissolved your family and murdered your brother.” Jaryd scowled at the fire. “I'm sorry, I did not mean to speak of upsetting things. But Princess Sofy has told me.”
“You know,” said Jaryd, “when I was a noble, many of my fellow nobles thought me an idiot. I wasn't interested in their sophistry, I've never liked to read, and most of the plays and paintings that Sofy finds so fascinating just bore me to tears. I liked to ride and train and play lagand. And drink and chase skirts, I admit. I knew they were frauds, all my noble friends and family; I never got along with them, nor them with me. I was too unsophisticated for them. And then they went and proved me correct.” He took a mouthful of food. “I'm still correct,” he said while chewing, “in my disdain for everything they believe in. I'm quite certain I understand them better than Sofy ever will. Yet Sofy has more intelligence and good wit than I could dream of. And I wonder, why are the most intelligent and educated usually amongst the most stupid?”
“I don't think that that's true,” said Jeddie.
“Sasha said the Tracato Nasi-Keth tortured and tried to kill her. In Petrodor half the Nasi-Keth ended up on the wrong side. In the Bacosh much of the education is handled by priests, who peddle the most evil thoughts of all. Give me a farmer's common sense and a woodsman's nose for horseshit any day. Most of the wisest people I know I've met after my so-called downfall, not before.”
Jeddie's frown had given way to a look of intense curiosity. “So tell me, if you think the princess such a fool, why do you follow her here?”
“Well, I was ordered to.”
“Lenay warriors are difficult to order if they feel their honour imperilled,” said Jeddie. “Commanding a Lenay warrior away from the war is no small thing, surely?”
Jaryd shifted uncomfortably. “She needs protection.”
“From whom? What could pose her so great a threat?”
“Herself,” said Jaryd.
Andreyis walked beside the prisoner train, as had become his practice in the last days. His feet blistered, but that was preferable to the wagon's jolting of bare boards. The road now descended into a shallow valley, within which nestled the largest town Andreyis had yet seen in Enora. A river wound through the valley, and from this shallow height he could see several bridges, and a pair of very tall temple spires. The ground here was wet, and a cold wind blew from the north, bringing rain and low, gusting cloud.
There was little traffic on the road. At one farmhouse, Andreyis saw a family piling belongings onto several wagons, and lashing them down. Other farmhouses looked deserted. Ahead, Andreyis saw a village courtyard, and some locals gathered to throw rotten food and rocks at the prisoners. Andreyis knew he should probably climb back into the wagon—walking here alongside he might just be beaten to death. Yet he kept walking, boots splashing in the rivulets of water that ran down the paved slope.
The locals saw him, and aimed their throws. Another was hefting a heavy spade. Suddenly a rider was bearing down on them, and they scattered. From the safety of doorways, they yelled at the rider. The rider, Yshel, just scowled at them.
Out of the village, she rode on the grass verge beside him. “Best that you get back in the wagon,” she said. “There will be many more like them in town.”
“I heal faster walking,” Andreyis said stubbornly. “What is this town?”
“It is Shemorane,” she said. The name was familiar. Andreyis frowned, trying to recall. “The High Temple is here,” said Yshel, seeing his puzzlement.
“Ah,” said Andreyis. That was in central Enora, he recalled. They'd come that far from the border. Now they were squarely in the middle not only of Enora, but of the Saalshen Bacosh. “I'd thought the temple was atop Mount Tristen?”
“Mount Tristen is there,” said Yshel, pointing. Across the valley, a lone peak loomed, its upper slopes disappeari
ng into low cloud. “Saint Tristen came down the mountain and showed his followers what the gods had told him, here, by the riverside. That is where the High Temple is built.”
Those were the twin spires in the town, Andreyis realised. He was in holy lands. Though not Verenthane himself, it raised a chill on the back of his neck.
“The Army of Larosa will be coming through this way, then,” he suggested.
“And everyone is leaving,” Yshel confirmed. “Now get back in the wagon, before I have one of the Enoran men come and put you there.”
Andreyis did as she said.
“Doin' well what your girlfriend says, then?” suggested Hydez. Of the six Lenays in the wagon he was worst hurt, since Ulemys had died two days earlier.
“This is Shemorane,” Andreyis told him. Hydez blinked at him. “Where the High Temple is.”
“You're joking,” Hydez said with suspicion. Hydez had fought with Hadryn forces during the Northern Rebellion. Andreyis thought it quite likely they had passed within armspans of each other during various battles, on opposite sides.
“No joke. My girlfriend told me.”
Hydez struggled to sit more upright, wincing at the pain. “The High Temple is here? Can you see it?”
“I caught a glimpse, just then,” Andreyis told him. “I imagine this road leads right past it, you'll get a good look.”
Hydez waved Sayden aside from the opposite bench and heaved himself across with a gasp of agony. He then leaned out the side of the shuddering wagon, and stared downslope, hoping for a sight of the Verenthanes' holiest temple.
“Regent Arrosh will be leading his priests to put the Shereldin Star back in there,” Sayden suggested. Sayden had long hair and thin tattoos upon one side of his face. He did not seem too excited by the prospect.
“This was always their main target,” Andreyis agreed. “It doesn't look very defensible, though.”
The wagon passed some villagers on the road, walking with several mules in a train, each with belongings lashed to their backs. Andreyis saw that Yshel had pulled off the road to talk to them. From the movement of hands, he guessed she was asking them where they were headed, and where the latest news put the various armies. Then she followed, red hair wet in the rain, her pale face worried.
Haven: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Four Page 8
