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Post by marianne on May 14, 2008 10:39:54 GMT
Chapter One
SASHA CIRCLED, A light shift and slide of soft boots on
compacted earth. The point of her wooden stanch marked
the circle’s centre, effortlessly extended from her two-fisted
grip. Opposite, Teriyan the leather worker matched her
motion, stanch likewise unwavering, bare arms knotted
with hard muscle. Sasha’s eyes beheld his form without true focus.
She watched his centre, not the face, nor the feet, nor especially the
wooden training blade in his strong, calloused hands.
An intricate tattoo of flowing black lines rippled upon Teriyan’s
bicep as his arm flexed. Thick red hair stirred in a gust of wind,
tangled where it fell long and partly braided down his back. High
above, an eagle called, launched to flight from the row of pines on
the northern ridge overlooking the Baerlyn valley of central Valhanan
province. The westerly sun was fading above the ridge, settling among
the pines, casting long, looming shadows. The valley’s entire length
was alive with golden light, gleaming off the wood-shingled roofs of
the houses that lined the central road, and brightening the green
pastures to either side. Nearby, several young horses frolicked, an
exuberance of hooves and gleaming manes and tails. From a nearby
circle, there came an eruption of yells above the repeated clash of
wooden blades. Then a striking thud, and a pause for breath.
Of all of this, Sasha was aware. And when Teriyan’s lunging attack
came, she deflected and countered with two fast, slashing strokes, and
smacked her old friend hard across the belly.
Teriyan cursed, good-naturedly, and readjusted the protective banda
that laced firmly about his torso. ‘What’d I do?’ he asked, with the air
of a man long since resigned to his fate.
Sasha shrugged, backing away with a light, balanced poise. ‘You
attacked,’ she said simply.
‘Girl’s gettin’ cute,’ Geldon remarked from amidst the circle of
onlookers. Sasha flashed Geldon a grin, twirling her stanch through
a series of rapid circles, moving little more than her wrists.
‘Always been cute, baker-man,’ she said playfully. Guffaws from the
crowd, numbering perhaps twenty on this late afternoon session.
Strong men all, with braided hair and calloused hands. Many ears
bore the rings of Goeren-yai manhood, and many faces the dark ink
patterns of the wakening and the spirit world. Lenay warriors all, as
fierce and proud as all the lowlands tales, a sight to strike terror into
the hearts of any who had cause to fear. And yet they stood, and
watched with great curiosity, as a lithe, cocky, short-haired girl in
weave pants and a sheepskin jacket dismantled the formidable
swordwork of one of their best, with little more to show for the effort
than sweat.
Teriyan exhaled hard, and repeated his previous move, frowning
with consideration. ‘Bugger it,’ he said finally. ‘That’s as good an
opening stroke as anyone’s got. If someone has a better suggestion,
I’m all ears.’
‘Improve,’ Tyal remarked.
‘Kessligh says the low forehand is a more effective opener than the
high,’ Sasha interrupted as Teriyan gave Tyal a warning stare. ‘For a
man your size, anyhow.’
‘Ah,’ Teriyan made a mock dismissive gesture, ‘that Kessligh, what
would he know about honest swordwork? You and him can stick to
your sneaky svaalverd. Leave the real fighting to us, girlie.’
‘Look, do you want to know how I do it, or not?’ Sasha asked in
exasperation. There weren’t many men in Lenayin who would dare
call her ‘girlie’. Teriyan was one. Kessligh Cronenverdt, the greatest
swordsman in Lenayin and her tutor in far more than just swordwork
for the past twelve years, was another.
Teriyan just looked at her, a reluctant smile creeping across a rugged
face.
A bell clanged from the centre of town, midway up the valley.
Stanches lowered, and all commotion about the training yard ceased
as men turned to look, and listen. Again the bell, echoing off the steep
valley sides, and then again, as someone got a good rhythm on the
pulley rope.
‘Rack your weapons!’ yelled Byorn, the training hall proprietor,
above the sudden commotion as men ran, boots thundering up thesteps from the outside yard to the open, broad floorboards of the
inner hall. ‘No haste in this hall, respect the circles!’
Despite the haste, men did keep to the dirt paths between tachadar
circles, careful not to disturb the carefully laid stones, nor the sanctity
of the space within. Sasha moved with less haste than some, seeing
little point in elbowing through the crush of young men taking the
lead. She walked instead with Teriyan and Geldon, up the dividing
steps and into the high-ceilinged interior, unlacing her banda, and
taking time to select her real weapons from the wooden rack where
she’d hung them earlier. With weapons, Kessligh had instructed her
often, one never rushed.
Most men did not own horses and began running up the trail
toward the main road. Sasha fetched Peg from his field beside the
training hall, used a stone paddock wall to mount, and galloped him
in their wake . . . but before she could go racing to the lead, she spotted
a familiar bay mare coming up the road to the training hall, a slim,
red-haired girl upon her back, waving one-handed for Sasha’s attention.
Sasha brought Peg to a halt, and waited. Lynette arrived with a
thunder of swirling dust and flying hair, eyes wide within a freckled,
pale face. She was panting and the mare – Chersey – was sweating
profusely.Maybe enough for a seven-fold ride at speed, Sasha reckoned
with a measuring eye, knowing Chersey’s abilities every bit as well as
Peg’s.
‘Sasha,’ Lynette gasped, ‘it’s Damon. Damon’s here.’
Sasha frowned. ‘Damon came to Baerlyn? With what?’
‘I thi . . . think it’s the Falcon Guard.’ She brushed a ragged handful
of curling red hair from her face as a gust of valley wind caught it.
Her long dress was pulled well above her knees, with most unladylike
decorum, exposing a pair of coarse-weave riding pants beneath. And
leather boots in the stirrups. ‘I’m not sure . . . I was taking Chersey for
a ride out past Spearman’s Ridge when I saw them coming, so I turned
around and came back as fast as I could . . . They had the banners out,
Sasha, it was full armour and full colours! They looked magnificent!’
Sasha’s frown grew deeper. The Falcon Guard had been lately posted
in Baen-Tar. ‘You didn’t speak to them? You don’t know why they’re
here?’
Lynette shook her head. ‘No, I came straight back and told Jaegar,
and he sent someone to ring the bell, and then I came looking for
you . . .’
‘Damn it. Lynie, I want you to go and get Kessligh – he went to
buy some chickens.’
‘He’ll hear the bell ringing, surely?’ Lynette asked in confusion, as
more men mounted nearby, and went galloping up the road.
‘Kessligh takes his chickens very seriously,’ Sasha said wryly. ‘Just
try and hurry him along a bit.’
‘I’ll try,’ said Lynette doubtfully. Sasha kicked Peg with her heels,
and went racing up the road as Lynette pulled Chersey about in a
circle and followed as best she could. A short way along, Sasha came
across Teriyan, Geldon and several others, running at a steady pace.
She pulled Peg to a trot alongside and extended an inviting hand to
Teriyan.
‘Come on,’ she said, ‘council heads should get there first.’
‘Leave it, girl,’ Teriyan answered without breaking stride. ‘I still got
some pride left, you know.’ Sasha scowled. Lynette went racing past
on Chersey. ‘Hey, where’d you send my girl off to?’
‘Ask her yourself, if you ever catch her,’ Sasha snorted, and galloped
once more up the road.
The road wove between paddock fences and low stone walls, catching
the full face of the sun before it vanished behind the ridge.
She was gaining fast on two men ahead as she reached the main
Baerlyn road. Upon the wooden verandahs flanking the road, Baerlyn
folk had gathered – mothers with their children, elderly folk in light
cloaks or knitted shawls, and the men now walking or running along
the road’s broad edge, keeping the middle clear for horses. Peg loved
a target, and passed the leading horses in a thunder of hooves.
The road wound past Geldon’s bakery, then past the trading houses
and side alleys leading to warehouses, and the workshops of jewellers,
potters, furniture makers and Teriyan’s own leather shop.
Up ahead she saw a gathering of horses and dismounted men in
armour blocking the road, milling before the stone facade of the
Steltsyn Star, Baerlyn’s only inn. Heraldsmen held banners, gusting
now in the light valley wind, indicating that Damon was still in the
vicinity.
Sasha pulled up beside several men from the training hall and
surveyed the scene. There appeared to be an effort underway to lead
the regiment’s horses down the Star’s side lane, to the stables and
paddocks that stretched to the southeastern valley wall at the rear.
Her searching eyes found Jaegar, Baerlyn’s headman, upon the Star’s
verandah gesticulating in earnest discussion, then waving a thick, tattooed arm across the semi-organised mass of waiting men and
horses. He spoke with Damon – tall, darkly handsome and notable
by his purple and green riding cloak, the gold clasp at his neck, and
the gleaming silver pommel of his sword at one hip. Now twentythree
summers, by her reckoning, and seeming tired and dishevelled
from his ride. All the men held a respectful distance, except the Falcon
guard captain and a young man in lordly clothes, eagerly surveying
the conversation, whom Sasha did not recognise.
Then the guard captain turned upon the step and shouted above
the snort and stamp of hooves, the jangle of armour and the busy
discussions of men, ‘In units down the lane! The stables are already
half full, fill them as you can, then fill the barn – it should take another
ten! The rest, there’s three more properties behind the inn toward the
valley side, there should be enough room in those barns, if not, move
down and knock on the next door. Be polite, I want not a hay bale
disturbed without permission, nor a chicken’s feather plucked, nor a
sow’s tail pulled. I’ll not have the good folk of Valhanan saying the
Falcon Guard make poor guests! Tend to your mounts, then gather
back here for a good hot meal on the king’s own coin!’
That got a rousing cheer from all present.
‘Men of Baerlyn!’ bellowed Jaegar, with a barrel-chested volume
that surpassed even the captain. He was a stocky man of middling
height but with massively broad shoulders. The angling light appeared
to catch only one side of his face, leaving the other darkly ominous . . .
except that the darker side was facing the light. Upon closer inspection,
the spirit-mask of Goeren-yai manhood revealed its finer intricacies
of weaving curls, waves and flourishes. Sunlight glinted on the many
rings in his ears, and upon the silver chain about his broad, sculpted
neck. His long hair, parted cleanly down the middle, bound down the
centre of his back in a single, leather-tied braid.
‘Those with space available indoors, please find a sergeant or
corporal and say so!’ Jaegar continued. ‘There’s no need for any more
than the horse tenders to spend a night in the cold! Illys, we’d welcome
some music inside tonight!’ There was a cheer from the Baerlyn
townfolk who had encircled the Falcon Guard, in all curiosity and
eagerness to help.
‘And Upwyld with the ale!’ yelled someone from the periphery.
‘Don’t forget the ale!’ And that got an enormous cheer from everyone,
soldiers and locals alike.
Jaegar held both calloused hands skyward to quieten the racket,
and then bellowed, ‘It is the honour of Baerlyn to receive this most
welcome visitation! Three cheers for the Falcon Guard!’
‘Hoorah!’ yelled the Baerlyners. ‘Hoorah! Hoorah!’
‘Three cheers for Master Jaryd!’ with an indication to the young
man beside them on the verandah. Again the cheers. The young man
held up a hand with a cheerful grin. Something about the glamorous
cut of his clothes, and the self-assured smile on his lips, made
Sasha’s breath catch in her throat. The Falcon Guard were all from
neighbouring Tyree province of central Lenayin. He must be one of
Great Lord Aystin Nyvar of Tyree’s sons. Not Jaryd Nyvar? Surely the
spirits would not be so cruel to her? ‘And three cheers for Prince
Damon!’ And those three cheers, to Sasha’s mild surprise, were loudest
of all. Damon, she noted, glanced down at his riding boots and looked
uncomfortable. She repressed an exasperated smile. Same old Damon.
‘Three cheers for Baerlyn!’ yelled the captain, and the soldiers
answered back in kind. ‘Let’s move!’
With little more fuss, the soldiers began filing down the Star’s
cobbled side lane. Sasha finally completed her rough headcount, and
arrived at perhaps eighty men and horses, their numbers clustering
a good way up the road past the inn. The strength of standing
companies varied from province to province – in the north, the great
armoured cavalry companies numbered closer to a thousand each.
The Falcon Guard company, by her reckoning, should have about five
hundred at full strength. Perhaps this contingent had left in a hurry
and the others were following.
She left Peg in the care of a farmer she knew well. Damon and the
young Tyree lordling stood in continued conversation with Jaegar,
now joined by another two Baerlyn councilmen, similarly tattooed
and ringed as Jaegar. Sasha eyed that contrast as she approached
unseen, slipping between soldier-led horses – the Baerlyn men rough
and hardy Goeren-yai warriors. And Damon tall, clipped and elegantly
attired, a Verenthane medallion – the eight-pointed star – prominently
suspended on a chain about his neck.
Rural Goeren-yai and city Verenthanes. The old Lenayin, and the
new. The Goeren-yai believed in the ancient spirits of Lenay hills, the
Verenthane in the foreign, lowlands gods. Sasha was born Verenthane,
but lived amongst Goeren-yai . . . and was raised by Kessligh as Nasi-
Keth, the followers of the teachings of far-off Saalshen. She sometimes
wondered if she’d done something to offend some gods or spirits in a previous life to have deserved such a complicated fate. She often
thought things would be so much simpler if she could just choose
one or the other . . . or the third. But no matter which she chose, her
choice would offend countless powerful people.
Sasha thrust the doubts aside, cleared the gathering about the steps,
and trotted briskly up. Damon saw her at the last moment and
straightened stiffly. Nearby commotion abruptly slowed, and
conversation paused, as people turned to look.
‘Damon,’ said Sasha, managing a half-genuine smile as Jaegar
quickly made way for her atop the steps.
‘Sashandra,’ Damon replied, similarly ill-at-ease. And then, with
meaningful emphasis, ‘Sister.’ And spread his arms to embrace her.
Sasha returned the hug, the first time she had embraced her brother
in nearly a year, by her immediate reckoning. From about the verandah,
and upon the road, there was applause and some cheering. Beneath
Damon’s riding clothes, Sasha felt the hard weight of chainmail, which
was sometimes decorative custom for a travelling prince, and sometimes
not. This, she guessed from the size of the company, was not. They
released each other, and Damon put both gloved hands upon her
shoulders and looked at her.
‘You’re looking well,’ he remarked.
Liar, Sasha thought. Little though she’d seen him of late, she knew
well his true opinion of her appearance these days. In Baen-Tar, the
seat of Lenay kings, the ladies all wore dresses, and hair so long you
could trip on it. Some of her wry amusement must have shown on
her face, for Damon barely repressed a smile of his own.
‘You too,’ Sasha replied, and meant it. ‘What brings you to my
humble town?’
‘Well,’ said the young prince with a hard sigh. ‘Therein lies the
tale.’
‘We’re still not clear exactly what happened,’ Damon said to the table,
his voice raised to carry above the mealtime clamour. Changed into
a clean shirt beneath a patterned leather vest, covered again by the
riding cloak in regal purple and green, he looked to Sasha’s eyes far
more comfortable now than in the armour. His fingers toyed absently
with the wine cup. ‘We only received word that Great Lord Rashyd
Telgar is dead, and that Great Lord Krayliss is responsible.’
Sasha stared sullenly at the open fire upon the centre of the Star’s
main floor. Flames blazed within the stone-lined pit as several kitchen hands hurried about and rotated the three sizzling spits.Men clustered
at long tables between ceiling supports as Baerlyn youngsters served
as waiters, hurrying back and forth with laden plates and mugs of
ale.
Voices roared in conversation, and heat radiated from the fire, as
music and the smell of good food filled the confined air beneath the
Star’s low ceiling.
‘You’re sure it was Krayliss that killed Rashyd?’ Jaegar pressed from
his seat alongside Captain Tyrun, commander of the Falcon Guard.
Tyrun and Sasha were sitting on either side of Damon at the head of
the table. On Sasha’s left sat Teriyan, widely regarded as Jaegar’s righthand
man in Baerlyn, due mostly to his swordsmanship and exploits
in battle. The young Master Jaryd completed the group, ignoring the
breathless stares that the serving girls sent his way. At the end of the
table, a chair for Kessligh sat empty. If Damon were offended at his
absence, he didn’t show it. Probably he knew that Kessligh was Kessligh,
and did as he pleased.
‘I’m not sure of anything,’ Damon replied to Jaegar, somewhat
testily, but recovered from his outburst no sooner than it had begun.
Same old Damon indeed, Sasha noted sourly. Damon took a breath.
‘I only know what word reached us in Baen-Tar. The messenger said
his lord was dead and that revenge must follow. Against Krayliss.’
Damon took another bite of his roast, then cleaned up the remains
of his vegetable raal with a piece of bread. The table exchanged sombre
glances, an oasis of silence amongst the raucous din. Sasha met no
one’s gaze and simply stared at the central fire. Lord Rashyd was dead,
and Hadryn province, the greatest of Lenayin’s three northern provinces,
was now without its leader. And now the Falcon Guard were riding
from Baen-Tar to take revenge on Lord Krayliss of neighbouring
Taneryn province. It seemed that the age-old conflict between Hadryn
and Taneryn had flared once more, with all the ancient, treacherous
history that entailed. Sasha did not trust herself to speak, lest some
slip of caution unleash the seething in her gut.
Lenayin had ten provinces – eleven, if one counted the city lands
of royal Baen-Tar. A century earlier the Liberation had permanently
established long-disputed borders and created a class of nobility to
rule over them. In all of the provinces save one, the nobility were
Verenthane. The one exception, of course, was Taneryn. Lord Krayliss
was the only Goeren-yai great lord in Lenayin. No surprise then that
the Hadryn–Taneryn border remained the most troubled in Lenayin.
To all the many causes for countless centuries of war between the
Hadryn and Taneryn, the Liberation had added religion.
As grand as the Liberation had been, not all the Lenay peoples had
shared in its benefits. For the Udalyn peoples, the Liberation had
proven a disaster. Today, they lived trapped in their valley within the
boundaries of Hadryn, holding fiercely to the old ways, despite the
Hadryn’s attempts to convert them or kill them. The Taneryn considered
them heroes. The Hadryn, heretics. It remained perhaps the most
emotive of unresolved conflicts in Lenayin. For Goeren-yai across
Lenayin, the Udalyn represented antiquity, the old ways from before
the Liberation, too strong to die, too proud to give up the fight. If
the Udalyn were somehow involved in this latest calamity, Sasha
reckoned, then matters could become very grim indeed.
‘Rashyd’s men were on manoeuvre, we heard,’ said Captain Tyrun,
downing his mouthful with a gulp of wine. Tyrun had a lean, angular
face, like the falcon from which his unit took its name. His nose was
large, his moustache broad and drooping. Less well clipped, Sasha
noted with reluctant curiosity, than most Verenthane officers, although
his face bore no sign of the ink quill, nor his ears of rings or other,
pagan decoration. Most likely he was no Goeren-yai, although if he
wore a Verenthane medallion, it lay hidden beneath his tunic. ‘It seems
he was killed within Taneryn borders.What he was doing there, if he
was there, we don’t know.’
‘Making nuisance, most likely,’ Teriyan remarked around a mouthful.
‘Hadryn’s claimed the western parts of Taneryn for centuries, damn
Rashyd’s been angling for a war since his father died.’
‘Words were exchanged,’ Tyrun continued, ignoring the dark look
that Damon fixed on Teriyan. ‘A fight ensued between Rashyd’s men
and Krayliss’s. Some were killed on both sides. And Krayliss killed
Rashyd personally, with clear intent. So the messenger said.’
‘He might not have seen it all,’ Jaegar cautioned.
Or might be lying through his teeth to protect the honour of his
ass of a lord, Sasha thought to herself. Still, she forced herself to
remain silent. It would not befit anyone to be speaking ill of Lord
Rashyd so soon after his death.
The calamity was beyond her immediate comprehension. No one
in these parts liked Lord Rashyd Telgar, with his arrogant, northern
ways and strict Verenthane codes. But for Krayliss to kill him . . . There
were some who’d said that Lord Rashyd sat at the king’s right hand.
And others who’d said that the king, at Lord Rashyd’s . . .
Tyrun heard Jaegar’s caution and shrugged. ‘As you say,’ he said.
‘We have yet to discover what happened. But Krayliss has taxed the
king’s tolerance for a long time now, and there comes a time when
even our tolerant king must put his foot down. In this, we are the
heel of his boot.’
‘Our king,’ said Master Jaryd, somewhat tersely, ‘is vastly long on
tolerance. He is a merciful man, a man of the gods, for surely they
favour him. My father says that Lord Krayliss has preyed upon this
mercy as a spoilt child preys upon the tolerance of a doting parent.
Like the spoilt child, Krayliss deserves a spanking.With His Highness
the Prince’s blessing, I intend to administer it personally.’
Jaryd downed a mouthful of ale with a flourish, lounging in his
chair as an athletic man might, who wished others to observe the fact.
Sasha observed him with a dark curiosity, having never seen this
particular young noble face-to-face before. Jaryd Nyvar was a name
known the length and breadth of Lenayin, and even those like Sasha
who tried to avoid the endless gossip of Verenthane nobility knew
something of his exploits. At no more than twenty-one summers,
Jaryd Nyvar was the heir of Tyree. His mother was a cousin to Sasha’s
father – King Torvaal Lenayin – which made her and Jaryd related,
she supposed. It was hardly uncommon amongst Lenay nobility – she
was probably related to far more arrogant young puss-heads than
Jaryd Nyvar. But it made her uneasy, all the same.
Every year at one of the great tournaments, Jaryd Nyvar would
win personal honours of swordwork or horsemanship.His flamboyance
was famous, his dancing reputedly excellent, and it was said he made
grand gestures to the ladies before every bout. Sasha had heard it said
jokingly that Jaryd’s swordwork was so excellent because he’d spent
most of his days beating off hordes of girls, and their mothers, with
a stick.
Looking at him now, she grudgingly conceded the stories of his
appearance were not too far-fetched. He was very pretty, with light
brown hair worn somewhat longer than most Verenthanes, just above
the collar at the back, and large, dark brown eyes that promised fire
and mischief in equal measure. She had not heard of his command
posting to the Falcon Guards. Perhaps his father grew tired of his
pointless gallivanting and thought to put his skills to some decent,
disciplined use. And his father, they said, was dying. Perhaps that
added to the urgency.
‘The Falcon Guard was posted to Baen-Tar for the summer?’ Teriyan
asked Jaryd.
‘The latter half of the summer, aye,’ Jaryd agreed. He took a grape
from the table and tossed it easily into his mouth. ‘We trained with
the Royal Guard and others . . . gave them a right spanking too, I might
add. Right, Captain?’
‘Aye, M’Lord,’ Captain Tyrun agreed easily. ‘That we did.’
‘I’ve served in both Hadryn and Taneryn,’ Teriyan said, chewing
on a slice of roast meat. ‘That entire border’s full of armed men waiting
for an incident. I wonder if the Falcon Guard will be enough. You’re
damn good, sure, but eighty men can’t be everywhere at once. If this
gets serious, there’ll be hundreds runnin’ around like headless chickens.
Thousands, maybe.’
‘Three more companies are several days behind us,’ Damon said.
‘Each of those is promised at closer to their full strength – five hundred
men in total. Most of the Falcon Guard were on manoeuvre about
Baen-Tar. That’s another hundred. We left in too much haste for
anything more.’
‘We’d have gathered a Valhanan company on the way through,’
Captain Tyrun added, ‘but there’s none standing ready at present.We
did think it common sense to gather Yuan Kessligh on the way through,
however. If he’s willing.’
He glanced toward the empty chair. Sasha shrugged. ‘I can’t speak
for him,’ she said. ‘But I’d be surprised if he weren’t.’
Jaryd slapped the table with one hand, delighted. ‘Wonderful!’ he
exclaimed. ‘To ride with Yuan Kessligh! I’ve dreamed of that since I
was a lad – smiting evil-doers at Kessligh’s side! That fool Krayliss
won’t know what hit him.’
‘Krayliss is the evil-doer?’ Sasha asked, implacably cool. ‘We have
yet to establish what occurred surrounding Lord Rashyd’s death. Until
such a time as we know for sure, Lord Krayliss deserves the benefit
of any doubt, surely? Or has my father’s law changed so drastically
when I wasn’t watching?’
Jaryd smiled broadly, in the manner of a masterful warrior
challenged to a duel by a raggedy little farmer’s girl with a stick.
‘M’Lady,’ he said, with a respectful, mirthful nod, ‘surely you know
what Lord Krayliss is like? The man is a bigot, a . . . a rogue, a thief –
a vain, strutting, pompous fool who is a blight upon the good nobility
of Lenayin! And now, apparently, a murderer, though this will surely
surprise no one who knows his type.’
‘I’ve met Lord Krayliss, Master Jaryd. Have you?’ Jaryd gazed at
her, his smile slowly slipping. ‘I’ve met Lord Rashyd too. And strangely,
I find your description could just as readily describe him as the other.’
‘I too have met Lord Rashyd, several times,’ Jaryd said coolly. Sasha
wondered if he’d ever conversed with a young woman on a matter
that did not involve her giggling shyly with starry eyes. ‘He is . . . or
rather was . . . a hard man, at times confrontingly so. But at least he
was not a . . . a shaggy-headed, mindless, chest-thumping . . .’ he waved
a hand, searching for a new, derogatory adjective.
‘Pagan?’ Sasha suggested.
Jaryd just looked at her for a moment, realisation dawning in his
eyes. Sasha shifted her gaze to Jaegar, beneath meaningful, raised
eyebrows. Jaegar coughed, and sipped at his drink. From this angle,
the spirit-mask on the left side of his face was not fully visible, but
gold glinted from his ear, and upon his fingers. The long braid, also,
was like nothing a respectable Verenthane would ever stoop to wear.
Anger flared in the future Great Lord of Tyree’s eyes. ‘You put
words in my mouth, M’Lady,’ he said accusingly. ‘I meant no such
thing!’
‘You young Verenthane lords put words in your own mouths,’ Sasha
retorted, ‘and scarcely a thought before putting them there. Remember
whose guest you are. They’re far too polite to say so. I’m not.’
‘Shut up, both of you!’ Damon snapped before Jaryd could reply.
The young man fumed at her, all trace of cool demeanour vanished.
Sasha stared back, dark eyes smouldering. ‘Please excuse my sister,
Master Jaryd,’ said Damon, with forced calm. ‘Her tempers are famous.’
‘And her allegiances,’ Jaryd muttered.
‘Oh pray do tell us all what that means?’ Sasha exclaimed, as Damon
rolled his eyes in frustration.
‘I have many Goeren-yai friends, M’Lady,’ Jaryd said, levelling a
finger at her for emphasis. ‘None of them admire Lord Krayliss even
a jot. You, on the other hand, seem all too pleased to rush to his
defence.’
‘I’ve heard those stories too,’ said Sasha. ‘The Hadryn and their
cronies have never been friends to either me or Kessligh. They accuse
me of sedition, of plotting against my father.’ She put both hands
upon the table with firm purpose. ‘Are you accusing me of sedition,
Master Jaryd?’
Jaryd blinked. Sedition, of course, was punished by death, with no
exceptions. A person so accused, without reasonable proof, had obvious grounds for an honour duel. Those, also, ended in death. With very
few exceptions. Jaryd started to smile once more, disbelievingly. No
man about the table seemed to share his humour. Jaryd Nyvar,
tournament champion of Lenayin, seemed barely to notice.
‘No,’ he said, offhandedly, with an exasperated raise of his eyes to
the ceiling, as though he felt his dignity severely pained to have to
tolerate such dreadfully silly people. Fool, Sasha thought darkly. ‘Of
course not. Your tempers delude you, M’Lady. I have nothing but
admiration for so great a Verenthane beauty as your own.’
‘Tell me, young Master Jaryd,’ said Teriyan, leaning forward with
evident amusement, chewing on some bread. ‘Have you ever sparred
against a warrior trained in the svaalverd?’
‘As a matter of fact, no,’ Jaryd said mildly. ‘The only two people
so trained in Lenayin, I believe, are Kessligh Cronenverdt and his uma.
And the visiting serrin, of course, but they never enter a swordwork
contest, even though I have often seen them at tournaments.’
‘And have you ever wondered why the serrin don’t enter swordwork
contests?’ Teriyan pressed.
Jaryd smirked. ‘Perhaps they are afraid.’
‘Not afraid, young Master,’ said Teriyan. ‘Just polite.’
Damon strode angrily along the upper corridor, the Star’s old
floorboards creaking underfoot, as the sounds of merriment continued
from below. Sasha followed, conscious that her own footsteps made
far less noise than her brother’s, and that their respective weights were
only half the reason why.When they reached his room, Damon ushered
Sasha inside, closed the door and threw on the latch.
It was a good room, as Lenay accommodation went. Four times
larger than most of the Star’s rooms, its floorboards covered with a
deer-hide rug, and small windows inlaid across the stone walls. Against
the inner wall, two large beds, with tall posts and soft mattresses
beneath piles of furs and fine, lowlands linen. Between the two beds,
a fireplace, crackling merrily, and a small pile of firewood in the wicker
basket alongside.
‘Why do you have to go and do that?’ Damon demanded at her
back. Sasha walked to the space between the two beds, where heat
from the fire provided some comfort.
‘Go and do what?’ she retorted.
‘And this!’ Damon exclaimed, striding over, reaching with one hand
toward the tri-braid upon the side of her head . . . Sasha ducked away,
scowling at him. ‘What in the nine hells is that?’
‘It’s a tri-braid, Damon. One braid for each of the three spirit
levels. Don’t they even teach basic Goeren-yai lore in Baen-Tar any
more?’
‘Why, Sasha?’ Damon demanded, angrily. ‘Why wear it?’
‘Because I’m Lenay!’ Sasha shot back. ‘What are you?’
‘Cut it off. Right now.’
Sasha folded her arms in disbelief.‘Make me!’ she exclaimed. Arisen
from the dinner table, there was a sword at her back now, and more
weapons besides. Damon, unlike Master Jaryd, knew better.
‘Good gods, Sasha,’ he exclaimed, with a sharp inhaling of breath.
He put both hands to his head, fingers laced within his thick dark
hair, looking as he would never wittingly appear before his men –
utterly at a loss. ‘A year since I’ve seen you. A full year. I was almost
looking forward to seeing you again . . . almost! Can you believe that?
And this is the welcome I get!’
Sasha just stared at him, sullenly. Her temper slowly cooling as she
gazed up at her brother. Not all the Lenayin line were blessed with
height – she was proof enough of that. But Damon was. A moderately
tall young man, with a build that spoke more of speed and balance
than brute strength. He would be very handsome indeed, she thought,
if not for the occasionally petulant curl of his lip and the faintly
childish whine in his tone whenever he felt events going against him.
He was the middle child of ten royal siblings, of whom nine now
survived.With Krystoff dead, Koenyg was heir.Wylfred would be next,
had he not found religion and committed to the Verenthane order
instead, with their father’s blessing. Then came Damon. Second-inline
now and struggling so very hard beneath the burden of expectation
that came of one martyred brother who was already legend, and an
overbearing stone-head of a surviving elder brother.
‘I’m not a Verenthane, Damon,’ Sasha told him, firmly. ‘I’ll never
be a Verenthane. You could cut my braid, stick me in a dress and feed
me holy fables until my mind dissolves from the sheer boredom, and
I’ll still not be a Verenthane.’
‘Well that’s all fine, Sasha,’ Damon said, exasperated. ‘You’re not a
Verenthane. Good for you. But you have a commitment to our father,
and that commitment includes not making overt statements of loyalty toward the Goeren-yai.’
‘Why the hells not?’ Sasha fumed. ‘Goeren-yai are more than half
of Lenayin last I looked! It’s only you lordly types that converted, and
the cities and bigger towns . . . most of Lenayin is just like this, Damon!
Small villages and towns filled with decent, hard-working folk who
ask nothing more than good rulers and the right to continue being
who they are without some shaven-headed, black-robed idiot strolling
into their lives and demanding their fealty.’
‘Sasha, your last name is Lenayin!’ Damon paused, to let the impact
of that sink in.Wiser than to rise to her provocations. That was new.
‘The family of Lenayin is Verenthane! It has been for a century, since
the Liberation! Now, whether your arrangement with Kessligh means
that your title is officially “Princess” or not, your family name remains
Lenayin! And while that continues to be so, you shall not, under any
circumstances, break with the continuity of the line of Lenayin!’
Sasha waved both hands in disgust and strode across the floor to
lean against a window rim. Looking northeast up the valley, small
lights burned from the windows of the houses that lined the road,
then the dark, ragged edge of the upper treeline, separating the land
from the vast expanse of stars. Hyathon the Warrior sat low on the
horizon, and Sasha’s eye traced the bright stars of shoulder, elbow
and sword pommel raised in mid-stroke.
‘Sasha.’ Damon strolled to her previous spot, blocking the fire’s
warmth. ‘Master Jaryd speaks the truth. There have been rumours,
since the call to Rathynal, of Krayliss courting your approval . . .’
‘The nobility talks, Damon,’ Sasha retorted, breath frosting upon
the cold, dark glass. ‘Rumour is the obsession of the ruling class,
everyone always talks of this or that development, who is in favour
with whom, and never a care for the concerns of the people. That’s
all it is – talk.’
‘Just who do you think you are, Sasha?’ Damon said in exasperation.
‘A champion of the common people? Because I will tell you this, little
sister – it’s precisely that kind of talk that breeds rumours. Krayliss
and his kind cannot be dismissed so easily, they do have a strong
following amongst some of the people . . .’
‘Vastly overstated,’ Sasha countered, rounding on him. She folded
her arms and leaned her backside against the stone windowsill. ‘The
ruling Verenthanes simply don’t understand their own people, Damon.
And do you know why that is? It’s because there are so few Goerenyai
among the ruling classes. Krayliss is the only provincial lord, and
he’s a maniac!
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