Sasha atobas-1

by Joel Shepherd

  The king stood at the foot of the three-step dais, in close conversation with Koenyg and Father Dalryn-the Archbishop of Lenayin. The king wore his customary formal black robes with golden trim. Koenyg wore similar, only with a greater prominence of leather as one might expect of a Lenay warrior. All looked up at Damon and Sofy's approach, and the procession that trailed them.

  At the last moment, Sofy disengaged Damon's arm and stood demurely to one side. Koenyg did likewise, giving her a displeased, "What are you doing here?" stare that Sofy ignored. The king took a pace forward and extended his black-gloved hand. Damon dropped to one knee, took the hand and kissed it. Then stood and embraced his father, to one side and then the other. From the sides of the dais, and from behind the rows of columns and guards, well-dressed nobility looked on, their expressions both grim and anxious. Lord Krayliss was not the first of the provincial lords to arrive in BaenTar for Rathynal, and Baen-Tar was becoming crowded with important lords and ladies from all over Lenayin.

  "My son," said King Torvaal, his hands on Damon's shoulders. His face, with its dark, close-trimmed beard, remained as impassive as his formal black robes. Verenthane black, like those of the archbishop. The colour of purity. "News precedes you of a crisis averted at Halleryn. Yet details are lacking."

  "Aye, my Lord," said Damon. His expression, Sofy saw, was guarded. He rarely wore that expression with her. She would spot it and suspect him of concealment. She wondered if their father would. No, she decided sadly, that was unlikely. But Koenyg might. "Lord Krayliss has cast himself upon your justice, and has accompanied me to Baen-Tar. He awaits your audience even now."

  A crease divided King Torvaal's dark brows, ever so faintly. "And how did this come to pass?"

  Damon explained. Torvaal listened, with the same faint, dark frown. Sofy felt her heart beating faster.

  "The girl had no right to submit to those demands on my behalf," Torvaal said when Damon had finished. His tone was firm, yet devoid of obvious emotion. As usual. "She serves the Nasi-Keth. Her privileges as a daughter of Lenayin were renounced twelve years ago. The king is not bound by her word."

  Damon's jaw seemed to tighten, just a little. "She saved lives, my Lord," he replied. "Lord Krayliss admitted to killing Lord Rashyd, though he claims just cause. As such, his was the wrong deed under the king's law, and Lord Usyn Telgar was merely reacting to that wrong deed. Lord Krayliss defied my original demand that he submit to your justice. To enforce your law, my Lord, I saw that I had two options-to join with the Hadryn armies and defeat him by force of arms, or to agree to the terms provided by M'Lady Sashandra. An assault would have cost hundreds of lives on both sides, and perhaps sparked a broader conflict between Taneryn and Hadryn that could have cost thousands. I deemed the second option more sensible… with your blessing, my Lord."

  Koenyg, Sofy saw, appeared somewhat annoyed, although he hid it well. Their father's expression remained unchanged. He considered his son with thoughtful dark eyes, within a face that might have been handsome if it had just once shown the faintest hint of levity. And that thought gave Sofy a familiar, melancholy sadness.

  Torvaal nodded. "You did well, my son," he said, and Damon seemed to relax a little. "I will see Lord Krayliss now."

  Koenyg made a gesture to the guards at the end of the hall and, once again, the doors squealed slowly open. Damon and Sofy moved to Koenyg's side as Torvaal ascended the three steps and sat in the simple, wood-carved throne. At the hall's end, a new procession appeared. These men did not walk with the refinement and dignity of Verenthane nobility. They swaggered, with heavy, muscular steps, swords swinging against their legs. Their hair was long, tied with apparently random braids. Gold glinted around necks and along ears and, despite the uniform glow of many lamps, it seemed somehow that the light only came from their right, for all the men's left profiles appeared cast dark into shadow.

  At their head strode a huge bear of a man, abristle with wild hair and beard, and a sword so enormous its leather binder squealed as it swung from his belt. His girth was greater than two Damons, Sofy reckoned with amazement, and Damon was a skinny lad no longer. His clothes were all leathers and skins, and his boots were patterned with intricate, beautiful stitching. Only when he and his men drew closer could Sofy see the equally intricate tattoos across the left side of their faces. Not all Goeren-yai men wore the tattoos, Sasha had told her. Those who did began to add the first strands after the Wakening, the Goeren-yai ceremony of manhood.

  The Taneryn contingent halted before the dais, staring about them insolently. There were perhaps twenty men in all, Sofy reckoned. She realised then why the guards had seemed on-edge. Disquiet spread throughout the hall, a disbelieving, angry murmur. It grew louder when Lord Krayliss took a step forward and stared directly at the king with no sign of obeisance.

  "Kneel before the king!" Koenyg demanded. King Torvaal's expression remained impassive. Krayliss's stare turned to Koenyg… Two dark, burning eyes within a bristling mass of dark hair. The fur coat over his huge shoulders added to the bear-like effect. To the right side of his face lay a long, winding braid, composed of three separate strands bound together.

  "Ha!" Krayliss laughed, his voice like a heavy drum at festival. "The king's heir defends his father's honour!" Within that mass of beard, his lips appeared to twist in humour. "That is good! Honour should be defended at all costs! Only know this, king's heir-not all men of Lenayin follow the path of honour quite so rigorously as others."

  Lord Krayliss knelt before the dais, and his contingent did likewise. His eyes, however, did not lower. Around him, the angry murmuring continued. Sofy found herself wondering at his accent-it was not unlike the northern accents she had heard, from men of Hadryn, Banneryd and Ranash. In Lenayin, one could never avoid the question of languages when determining a man's loyalties. Some said that the sooner all peoples abandoned their mother tongues and spoke only Lenay, the better. But what would that cost the kingdom, to lose so much of their ancient ways forever? Men like Krayliss would never stand for it. And, quite possibly, women like Sasha too.

  "Lord Krayliss," said the king from his throne. Sofy noted Duke Stefhan and several of his Larosa contingent watching from between the columns. She wondered what they would make of this very Lenay scene. "My son informs me that you have ridden to Baen-Tar to place yourself within the protection, and the justice, of the king's law. Is this correct?"

  "No," Krayliss said proudly, looking his king firmly in the eye. Another angry muttering from the crowd. "I am here on behalf of my people. The ancient people, the last of the true Lenays. It is we who are here to judge your law, King Torvaal. We shall judge it and we shall see if we find it worthy."

  The king raised a hand to forestall the angry words from the crowd. His manner was calm. "And what expectations do you hold, Lord Krayliss, of my justice?"

  Krayliss smiled a dark, unpleasant smile. "We in Taneryn have had a hundred years experience of the Verenthane kings, King Torvaal. A hundred years of Hadryn attacks. A hundred years of Verenthane cronies and sycophants raised to the nobility of every lordship of Lenayin, to the point where I stand before you as the last remaining Goeren-yai chieftain in Lenayin. I shan't hold my breath for your justice."

  "If you have not cast yourself upon the king's justice," Koenyg said loudly from Damon's side, "then Lord Usyn Telgar's claims of vengeance still stand. Are you within the king's justice, Lord Krayliss, or are you not?"

  "Aye, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Krayliss growled at Koenyg. "An outright invasion of Taneryn by the bloody-handed Hadryn to remove this mischievous Lord Krayliss once and for all? Behold, the heir Prince Koenyg! Not as talented as the great, departed Prince Krystoff, nor half as pretty I might add, but a great friend to the Goeren-yai of Lenayin is he!" His men laughed with raucous, ugly humour. Koenyg fumed. "March us all off to kill serrin babies in the lowlands, he would! Make us abandon our farms and our families for a good year or more so the Cherrovan can come raiding and the Hadryn can rape our w
omen and steal our livestock with none of us here to do a damn thing about it!"

  "That's enough from you!" shouted one noble from the crowd, as others yelled their disapproval, and suddenly the guards were more concerned with containing the observers than guarding the Taneryn. "Respect the king!" shouted another. Krayliss stood unmoved before the dais and gazed proudly about at the commotion he had caused. From his throne, Torvaal simply watched. The noise began to die, but Krayliss wasn't finished.

  "Oh, you think I'm joking, don't you?" he boomed to the hall at large, sweeping them with his shaggy-browed stare. "You think I'm just giving the prince a jab or two? Then what by the spirits is he doing here?" Krayliss levelled a thick finger at Duke Stefhan. "Yes, you, you perfumed, limp-wristed wystych!"

  Sofy's eyes widened. Sasha had told her that word-it was common to old Valhanan Lerei such as was still spoken in the valleys near Baerlyn and to the Taasti language of Taneryn. It meant sexual self-gratification, Sasha had said. Between friends, it was a joke. In the royal courts of Baen-Tar, it was dangerous provocation.

  "Behold," Krayliss continued with glee, "a duke of Larosa-the most defeated Bacosh province of the last two centuries! The greatest losers in all Bacosh history!" At the duke's side, several of his men looked on with puzzled concern. Those, Sofy reckoned, could not penetrate Krayliss's thick accent… and just as well. The duke simply stared, dark and cautious beneath his fringe of curls. "Here in Baen-Tar for Rathynal! Fancy that! Recruiting willing fodder for your armies, are you, Master Duke? Please tell us all, what is the good Prince Koenyg's going price for the life of a poor Goeren-yai farmer these days? Three pieces of copper? Four?

  "We in the provinces are not stupid. We know that the king's favour has swung with each heir. Prince Krystoff trained to be Nasi-Keth and loved the Goeren-yai, and so while he lived the king did also… until of course the northerners conspired to have Prince Krystoff killed in combat with the Cherrovan. All so that the good, devout, Verenthane Prince Koenyg could take his place! And now they get their reward! Don't they, Master Koenyg?"

  Deathly silence. Sofy could hear the shock. Could feel it emanating from the very stones. She had expected another uproar, but there was nothing. The typical Lenay response to such dastardly accusations was anger. But this… this felt more like fear. Was that it? Were all these Verenthane nobles actu ally scared of Lord Krayliss now that he had vastly, enormously overstepped the mark of no return? Or were they only scared of what he could unleash upon them, and upon the entire kingdom? Sasha had said often that the Goerenyai would never follow him… but what if she was wrong?

  Sofy found herself staring at a Royal Guardsman standing alongside Duke Stefhan, his eyes wary, a hand on the hilt of his sword. That man, too, wore the tattoos on the left side of his face and long, braided hair spilled from beneath his gleaming helm. So did nearly half the Royal Guard. What would happen to all the powerful people in this room if the Goeren-yai rose up in open rebellion? If the Royal Guard were split down the centre? If all the provincial armies divided along the lines of their faith?

  Suddenly, she could feel the fear herself. Sasha had said this, too. Had said how crazy it was for there to be so few Goeren-yai left in the seats of power. Surely there was need for a calming, moderate voice to counter Lord Krayliss's provocations. But who? Aside from Krayliss, there were no Goeren-yai leaders left. The trappings of noble power were too Verenthane, and far too foreign, for the Goeren-yai's liking. It wasn't the lifestyle that they knew, or wanted.

  Suddenly, Sofy realised what it was that Sasha had found so frustrating all these years. The Verenthane nobility had taken advantage of the Goerenyai's naive, rustic good faith. Distributing all the seats of power beneath the new, central throne amongst like-minded Verenthanes had been simple and convenient-the Goeren-yai had not complained and it meant that Verenthanes would not have to deal with their rural cousins' exasperating, uncivilised, pagan traditions. It had been so easy, and so rational, at the time. Only now, when the normally disinterested Goeren-yai showed the first signs of real anger with the throne in a century, did the price of those actions come sharply into the light. Now, the Goeren-yai looked for leadership… and found only Lord Krayliss.

  Dear gods, Sofy thought to herself. No wonder many of the initially outraged Verenthane nobles now looked a little pale. Krayliss was picking a fight. Now, they wondered if they dared to accept.

  "Lord Krayliss," said the king, into that silence. "You have ridden to Baen-Tar to submit yourself to my justice. Yet you make grave accusations against the throne and against the throne's friends. How are we to believe that your intentions are just as you say?"

  "The king's justice has a champion in the eyes of the Goeren-yai," Krayliss rumbled. "Her name is Sashandra Lenayin. Her uman is perhaps the greatest warrior Lenayin has ever known. In the eyes of my people, her uman's path was guided by the great Synnich, the most powerful spirit of these lands. Now, we have seen with our own eyes that the Synnich guides the path of Sashandra Lenayin also. I submit to your justice, King Torvaal, on the condition that Sashandra Lenayin shall attend the proceedings and shall speak only the truth on my behalf. It is on her credit, in my eyes, that your justice rests. Nothing more do I ask."

  "Sashandra Lenayin," said the king, "bears neither rank nor privilege within the king's law." Sofy could have sworn she saw Lord Krayliss's eyes gleam, ever so faintly, as if sensing an opportunity. "But," the king continued, "for the purposes of that ride, she was beneath the authority of Kessligh Cronenverdt, who was in turn beneath the authority of my son Damon. Your claim is valid, Lord Krayliss. When she arrives, Sashandra Lenayin shall speak for you."

  "My king is wise," said Krayliss, with a slight, almost mocking bow of the head. "May my king sit upon the throne for many, many years to come."

  Jaryd Nyvar entered his father's guest chambers on the uppermost floor of the Baen-Tar palace and found all the lords of Tyree waiting for him. Lord Redyk, of vast girth and white whiskers, standing by the blazing fireplace with a cup of wine in hand, as usual. Lord Paramys, slim-shouldered and poker-straight, his long black beard almost reaching his navel. Lord Arastyn, to whose son Jaryd's younger sister Galyndry was due to be wed within the year-a handsome man with a big jaw and heavy features, yet clever eyes. Jaryd's gaze settled upon Lord Tymeth Pelyn, a wide, bald man with three chins and ill-fitting robes that struggled yet failed to hide his dimensions. Lieutenant Reynan Pelyn had been his brother. Lord Tymeth's eyes fixed upon the heir of Tyree as he walked across the flagstone floor, unblinking and unreadable.

  There were fifteen lords in all, Jaryd counted, out of twenty-three in all Tyree… but some were more important than others, and possibly not all had travelled to Baen-Tar for Rathynal. It was disconcerting to have left Baen-Tar in normality, with his family far away, and then to return three weeks later and find all these grand figures of Tyree nobility gathered and waiting for him. Jaryd's father sat on a chair before his bed, attired in a cloak of Tyree velvet green. His thin face was drawn and sweat beaded upon his pallid forehead. White hair hung limp around his face and there was a cup in his listless hand. His eyes barely seemed to register his son's approach.

  "Father," said Jaryd, and bent to embrace him, then kissed him on both cheeks. It was shocking to recall that his father had only forty-three summers; Jaryd had seen sixty-year-olds with greater vigour. The air was overly warm and smelled sweet, almost sickly. "You summoned me."

  "My son," said the Great Lord of Nyvar, his voice hoarse. "You return with Lord Krayliss in custody."

  "You sound displeased," Jaryd observed. Wasn't that just like his father, to disparage every achievement with which he was even remotely involved? He had led the Falcon Guard, Tyree's finest company, into battle to restore the king's peace and his father remained unimpressed.

  "You needn't have brought all of him back," said Lord Redyk, stroking his whiskers. "Just his head, lad."

  "It wasn't my decision," Jaryd said shortly. "Prince Damon was in
command."

  "Oh aye," said Lord Paramys, his blue eyes cold. "And Kessligh Cronenverdt was only along to pick flowers from the roadside. Where is the great Nasi-Keth, anyhow?"

  "With his uma in Baerlyn, I believe," said Jaryd. He hooked a hand into his belt near the sword pommel, his weather-stained cloak tossed back from one shoulder. It made him look good and he knew it.

  "Prince Koenyg erred in sending Prince Damon," Lord Redyk growled in distaste. "He should have gone himself. Prince Damon lacks steel, no wonder he did not stand up to Cronenverdt. Now things are worse."

  "We rode to restore the king's peace," Jaryd replied with a frown. "Peace was achieved, at a minimal cost, and now Great Lord Krayliss shall face the king's justice. How do you accuse Prince Damon of any fault?"

  Lord Redyk's expression became faintly incredulous. "Any fault? Are you mad, boy? At this Rathynal, we push for power. For a full hundred years since the Liberation we have waited for the king to grant us the powers that King Soros promised our forefathers, but he has never seen sufficient reason to do so. Now, the king needs us for his lowlands war. He will grant us what we want, or else his conquering army shall be comprised of Royal Guards and kitchen hands.

  "The great lords must present the king with a united face at this Rathynal to demand noble rights… and yet you bring Lord Krayliss, the very face of disunity, back into our midst? Are you mad?"

  That was twice that rhetorical question had been asked. Jaryd bristled. "And that's your only concern about Lord Krayliss?" he asked coldly. "What about the Goeren-yai? You want to kill the last remaining Goeren-yai great lord, from the only province in Lenayin without a ruling Verenthane nobility, and you're not worried about the anger it may cause the rural folk?"