"Pah!" Lord Redyk waved a dismissive hand. "The pagans nearly came to blows just pitching their tents outside the Baen-Tar walls, arguing over the best camp sites. They're the last of our concerns-half of them want to kill Lord Krayliss as much as we do.
"They won't mind him dead, but they will mind him if he shames them! You know what the pagans are like, always falling over each other to make grand gestures of heroism, waving their cocks for all to see. Krayliss will defy us in our demands to the king, you watch. He'll refuse to partake in the lowlands war and he'll shame the other pagans into doing the same…"
"I disagree," said Lord Arastyn, mildly, from Jaryd's other side. Jaryd suspected that Arastyn, unlike Redyk, was still on his first cup of wine. In his other hand, he held an ornate warhorn-one of the chambers' decorative artefacts. He had been considering it, offhandedly, while the others talked. "The pagans want war. Perhaps the Taneryn do not, nor the easterners, for the serrin have long travelled to those parts and are admired there. But the west and the south have had less contact and see little of Cherrovan incursions in the north. These are warlike people, yet for a century there's been little but peace, save the usual, stupid honour-squabbles between villages. Left alone, Goeren-yai will fight themselves. Those folk in the south and west want a glorious war to relive the tales of their ancestors. And to them, Lord Krayliss is as much a foreigner as the serrin."
Jaryd knew that his father thought highly of Lord Arastyn. It was one reason why he'd promised Galyndry to his son. His family had been loyal, too. That was the other reason.
"The south and the west, perhaps!" Lord Redyk retorted. "But Tyree is neither south nor west, Lord Arastyn! Hellfire and floods take the south and west, the one place where Krayliss does have an influence is right under our bloody noses! And in Valhanan, where that bloody Nasi-Keth and his wild bitch hold sway, and in Taneryn with Lord Krayliss himselfl And I tell you, in some places they may hate Krayliss enough to want to kill him, but if he stands up against a lowlands war, then none of them will suffer to be seen as a lapdog to Verenthane lords. I know these people, I tell you, and that's how they think!"
"If only our good friend Great Lord Kumaryn would have had the balls to move against Cronenverdt and his bitch earlier," Lord Paramys muttered. "If she joins with Lord Krayliss, then there'll be trouble. Did you hear him call her the Synnich? What the hells is a Synnich, anyhow?"
Jaryd listened to them argue, but his thoughts were wandering. He thought of the girl, with her short hair, lively eyes and, it could not be denied, firm buttocks. As pretty as her sisters, when one learned to disregard the unwomanly presentation. And crazy as a fevered mule. But then, who amongst these men present, who called her names and wished for her downfall, could match her with a sword or on a horse?
Jaryd Nyvar did not know much about a lot of things, but he knew honour. His father thought him a simpleton, and had often wondered aloud what he'd done to so displease the gods that they would give him a dunce for an heir. Jaryd had never excelled in studies. Written words still troubled him, and numbers moreso. An heir to the Great Lordship of Tyree would need such skills, he was often told. He was clever with a sword, a genius on a horse, and had surprised even himself with his gifts as an artist. The latter skill he'd been too embarrassed to practise, lest the other noble boys laugh at such girlish pursuits… but his tutors had noticed. He was obviously intelligent, they said. He was just lazy. He was not applying himself hard enough. His head was so full of horses, swordwork and pretty girls that he had lost all sense of priorities.
He'd become so tired of hearing those accusations that he'd decided he might as well make them true. At least that way he'd have a little fun.
He'd discovered soon enough that the commonfolk didn't care whether he could recite Torovan poets or make sense of the taxman's books. To them, he was a hero, something he'd enjoyed vastly more than being a dunce. Noble boys were more wary, aware of his father's concerns, which were therefore also their fathers' concerns. Some of them had teased him about his lack of scholarly skill, for which Jaryd had mercilessly tormented them in the practice yard or on the lagand field. They hadn't liked that, but Jaryd hadn't cared. He was heir to the Great Lordship of Tyree and could best them at all the things that should truly matter of a young Lenay man. What were they going to do about it?
"My brother is dead," said Lord Tymeth, which stopped all conversation immediately. "I wish to know how it happened."
Jaryd turned to face him. Pelyn were a powerful family with a large holding in western Tyree and access to lands that could become a large source of revenue should the lords get their wish and force the king to allow them to tax such lands.
Oddly, Jaryd found himself recalling the girl's scolding about lands and taxes. And of the death of Lord Aynsfar of Neysh, in the south, after he had tried to impose such taxation without the king's leave. Were they all fools to be standing here in Baen-Tar, with not a Goeren-yai in sight save the serving maids, and pretend that they had nothing to fear from the followers of the ancient ways?
The cold accusation in Lord Tymeth's eyes added to Jaryd's discomfort. This was all wrong. He'd thought the girl a fraud, but in truth, she was a for midable warrior. He'd thought his father's goals just and fair, yet he'd seen now how fiercely the Goeren-yai loved their freedom and he doubted they'd just lie back and accept a new set of local, tax-raising rulers any more than they'd tolerated Lord Aynsfar. He'd always thought his noble peers basically honourable, with a few notable exceptions… but he'd seen Lieutenant Reynan Pelyn attempting to put a blade in the girl's back, when honour should have compelled him to rush to her defence, whatever their differences.
Lord Tymeth stared, yet Jaryd could not feel any shame at what he'd done. He was not a brilliant man, perhaps, but he was honourable. Honourable behaviour, with the stanch, blade and lagand hook, had brought him the only true happiness he'd ever known. His honour was something right and something pure, and something his, that no teasing from his peers or contempt from his elders could ever destroy.
"I killed your brother, Lord Tymeth," he said, with as much firm disdain as he could muster. "Sashandra Lenayin won a duel against Farys Varan of Hadryn, one of the north's best swordsmen. The Hadryn proved dishonourable and attacked her following a fair victory. I moved to defend the victor, with the rest of the Falcon Guard, and in the ensuing confusion, I saw Lieutenant Reynan attempt to shove his blade into Sashandra Lenayin's spine, with clear intent. Thankfully, I was there to save Tyree from this blight on its honour."
There was no sound in the palace guest chambers but the crackling of the fire. They had already heard, Jaryd saw.
Some men stared in open hostility. Others looked at each other, as if wondering what now might happen. Lord Redyk wore a dark frown. Lord Arastyn, a serious contemplation. Great Lord Aystin Nyvar wore no discernible expression at all. He had barely reacted. He just sat in his chair, looking pale and ill.
Jaryd felt a great surge of frustration that, once again, he should be blamed for something that was most certainly not his fault. "Which one of you ordered it?" he demanded, scanning the lords of Tyree with his eyes. "Which one of you ordered something so dishonourable? I can understand a man deciding that Tyree would be better off with Sashandra Lenayin dead, but to do so by such a method? I should kill the man who ordered the deed for he deserves death far more than even Lieutenant Reynan."
His father cleared his throat. "That would be me," he said. Jaryd stared, his breath caught in his throat. His father looked up and met his gaze properly for the first time. A dry, humourless smile tugged at thin, pale lips. "It's no surprise I should deserve death. The gods give all men what they deserve."
"Boy always did have more wind than wits," Lord Paramys muttered. No one leapt to Jaryd's defence.
"Why?" Jaryd asked, in bafflement.
"Tyree would be better off with her dead," his father rasped, "you said it yourself. A man might decide that. A man did. Many men. Any one who might unite the
Goeren-yai is a threat. The moment for Lenayin's nobility has come. We can afford no division and no obstacles. Krayliss is one obstacle. Kessligh Cronenverdt is less so, for he was always more Nasi-Keth than Goeren-yai, but his bitch is not. A royal Goeren-yai was always the dream of many. Best that it does not happen."
"You never told me!" Jaryd bristled. "You never trusted me with your plans! Why?"
"Why?" His father snorted a laugh, as equally humourless as the smile. "Look at you. You think this piteous whining surprises me? I did not tell you because I know my son. I know my son better than I wish to."
"My honour displeases you?"
"Honour is the last refuge of a fool!" his father snarled. "Honour is the excuse for traitors to betray and for cowards to take heel! This is honour!" He jabbed one bony forefinger at the men surrounding. "Your family! Your class! Your faith! These things make you honourable, no more! If you do not understand that, then your honour is no more than ashes in your mouth, and blood on your hands."
"I will challenge, my Lord," Lord Tymeth said coldly. "I have no wish to, but my brother has been slain. Family honour, my Lord."
"Indeed," said Great Lord Aystin Nyvar, coldly. "But a challenge can be averted. I have had word from our friend the Great Lord Kumaryn of Valhanan. He has heard Sashandra Lenayin is responsible for this death, not my son. I see no need to disabuse him of the notion."
"It makes no difference," Lord Tymeth replied. "I know the truth, and the truth cannot be…"
"It makes all the difference!" Lord Aystin snapped. "Have you heard nothing that has been said? We must present a united front to the king! Honour is to be found in advancing our cause, not squabbling amongst ourselves like…"
"I shall not allow my brother's murderer to escape justice!" Lord Tymeth retorted, his jowls reddening with rage.
"If it's justice you want, Tymeth," Lord Arastyn said calmly, "then you'd best keep your mouth shut. Master Jaryd was within the king's justice, your brother was not."
Lord Tymeth stared at him, too furious to speak.
"Who's going to challenge me?" Jaryd said angrily. "You, Lord Tymeth? You're almost too fat to walk, let alone fight. What would you do, sit on me?"
"I challenge on behalf of my nephew Pyter!" Tymeth yelled. "He's equal a swordsman to you and only too eager to see your head on a pike, I assure you, Master Jaryd!"
"Enough!" Great Lord Aystin yelled, struggling from his seat. "Enough with this…" and he broke into a fit of coughing. Men came to his sides, holding his arms to keep him from falling. Jaryd watched as coughs racked his father's frail body. He did not feel much emotion beside anger. The coughing passed, leaving Great Lord Aystin limp in his chair like an empty shell. "There shall be no challenge," he rasped, weakly. "Sashandra Lenayin shall bear this accusation. My son shall vouch for the truth of it."
He looked up, his sunken eyes watery and pale.
"You want me to lie?" Jaryd asked incredulously.
His father wiped his lips with a bony hand. "Bright as a bonfire, this lad."
"The Falcon Guard were there too! You can't get all of them to lie! Soldiers spread gossip worse than housewives!"
"Boy's got a point," said Lord Arastyn.
Great Lord Aystin waved his hand. "Gossip, there's always gossip. Gossip also says that Prince Krystoff never died, that he turned into a great grey wolf and can still be heard near the Hadryn border, howling at the moon. It's what we say that matters; the king can't act on gossip. Sashandra Lenayin killed Reynan Pelyn. Didn't she, my son?"
Ten
Upon the late-afternoon ride out to Spearman's Ridge, a sharp wind began from the north and cloud formed, as if out of nowhere, rolling in a dark, swirling mass above the hills. Riding homeward at a moderate gallop, Sasha fancied the air smelled of rain, cold and gusting, as the trees shifted and groaned uneasily in the thunder of her passing.
Returning home, she unsaddled and washed down the colt, arranging feed and checking all over. She then saddled a filly, and was riding it past the house in the darkening, blustery afternoon, when she saw Kessligh leaning upon the fence about the vegetable patch. She steered past the vertyn tree toward him.
"Where is Alden?" she asked.
"Walking. His legs needed stretching."
"If I'm to make Rathynal, I must leave tomorrow," Sasha said shortly. "You'll be leaving too?"
Kessligh said nothing. He looked at her, with wry consideration. Then "Be quick with the ride, we've some exercises before sundown and it's about to pour."
"She needs a good gallop," Sasha said darkly, patting the filly's neck as the young horse fretted and tossed, smelling the rain in the air. "Are you leaving for Petrodor?"
"Quick, I say," Kessligh said, with a hard edge to his eye. "You're underdone yourself."
Sasha glared. "Fine," she snapped, and kicked with her heels. The filly shot off across the lower slope with a startled snort, straight for the path to the road.
The rain began even as she reached the foot of Spearman's Ridge, light specks of moisture that stung in her eyes as she turned back for home. The filly's condition seemed good and so she held to a fast gallop for a long stretch up the winding incline she had come. The rain grew heavier, stinging her face, and she held a careful line through the fast corners, knowing well where the road could become treacherous for the unwary. Soon she was partly drenched, and rivulets of water ran across the road in little streams.
The road remained rough where Kumaryn's force had ridden, hundreds of hooves churning the surface. They had camped last night upon the fields above Baerlyn and then departed the following morning. Lord Kumaryn, she suspected, would head straight for Baen-Tar-already the other lords would have gathered for feasting, games and celebrations before the serious business began. She had little interest in arriving so early herself. Some more time with Sofy would be nice. The extended company of so many nobles and lords would not be.
Predictably, the rain stopped. Sasha wasn't fooled-approaching northerly weather in Lenayin was always as such, first some showers, then a break, and then a torrential downpour to send even the snails scurrying for cover.
She returned the second horse with due attention to its condition, then descended from the stables to find Kessligh waiting with a pair of stanches, his own banda padding already strapped to his torso and thighs.
"High defence," he told her as she strapped on the banda. There was an unusual urgency to his manner and a grimness beyond even his usual, hard discipline. "You jarred your arm defending from your horse at Perys-that's partly balance and partly upper-body strength. A girl needs to work on it extra hard."
Sasha shook her head impatiently as she tightened the straps. "It was bad balance, I wasn't set…
"Sasha," Kessligh said firmly, "strength is the foundation. Hathaal is not all of svaalverd, even the greatest serrin female fighters could not escape strength… els i'as hathaal, strength within form. Lenay men waste time building power for power's sake… a svaalverd fighter must build strength and flexibility as the demarath alas'an hathaal."
Sasha fed the torso straps about her back. "I'm as strong as I need to be for what I need…"
"Speak Saalsi," Kessligh instructed. "You're tripping your tongue already."
Sasha took a deep breath, trying to order her thoughts. "I have sufficient power across the dimensions," she said… or thought that she said. So many words in Saalsi had multiple translations depending on context. "I cannot master all things simultaneously… 1 need to focus my training or…"
"Focus is manifold," Kessligh replied, in far more fluent and commanding Saalsi. "You separate the inseparable. All is one. I have only ever taught you one thing. Draw it into your centre. Find the symmetry. You'll find that each new thing I teach is not truly new, only a variation of that one thing which you already know."
Sasha frowned as she finished her straps. Gave a yank of hard leather upon the cold, wet shirt beneath. Confusion aside, Saalsi described the svaalverd far better than Lenay ever c
ould… or Torovan, for that matter. A word could be one thing, or it could be another, with a subtle shift of contextual grammar… just as a svaalverd stroke could be many things, either offensive or defensive, depending on the slightest slide of a foot, or the angle of a wrist to the hilt and blade. Saalsi forced her to think, to consider every word. Sometimes she thought that was also Kessligh's intention.
They began with a series of high offensive combinations, Kessligh attacking with rare speed and fury. Sasha defended each with a rapid retreat and flashing stanch, occasionally feinting or misdirecting to a sidestep for the offensive counter… yet rarely, today, did her counterattacks find success. Always Kessligh's strokes found the limits of her high-arm extension, straining her shoulders as her arms struggled to hold their form above her head. Once, she simply lost the grip with a hard impact, the stanch snapping back to clip her skull as she ducked. Another blow caught her a glancing strike on the forearm as she hissed in pain and clutched at the bruise. The next time an attack came from that quarter, she was ready with a hard slash and counter… yet Kessligh's own reverse caught her hard across the middle with a lightning thud! upon the banda that drove breath from her lungs.
"You overcompensate," he told her in hard, calm Saalsi. Wind whipped the untidy hair about his brow, as wild as the rugged lines of his face. "You know that's your weakness. You overcompensate and leave your opposing quarter unguarded. A good fighter or a lucky fighter may find that opening and split you. If you were less lazy on the arm strength, you'd be better."
Sasha breathed hard, regaining her composure as she leaned upon her stanch. "If I build too much shoulder strength," she said through gritted teeth, "I get stiff. Stiffness is the surest way to limit my extension…"
"Bhareth'tei, not bhareth'as," Kessligh said. "You're implying the theoretical, this is practical." Sasha rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Combat is the place where the unlikely becomes probable," he continued. "You do not think your weakness great, yet I exploit it even now. Few soldiers ever see the stroke that kills them. Once more."
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