SOFY STOOD AT THE EDGE of the stable's mustering yard, watching the milling chaos of horses and soldiers in the blazing torchlight, as frenzied shadows splashed across neighbouring buildings and the towering inner stone wall of Baen-Tar City. Anyse was at her side, trying to hold a spare cloak over her princess's head and ward off the light, chill rain. Sofy recognised Damon, surrounded by Royal Guardsmen, their gold and red distinct amidst the green of the Falcon Guard.
As he dismounted, stablehands rushing to take his horse, she caught sight of a second group of very different riders. They wore the dark skins and leathers of the Goeren-yai, their hair long and wild, some with rings in their ears that glinted in the torchlight. The banner carried by one was their only identification—green with three diagonal black stripes. Taneryn. One man in particular was giving orders—a huge man in a big fur coat with a bushy beard to match.
Anyse's arms were clearly tiring. “Oh Anyse,” Sofy scolded her, “it's barely raining!”
“Your Highness will catch a chill,” Anyse said stubbornly.
“You're getting wet, you should be more worried for yourself.”
“Goeren-yai don't catch chills,” Anyse replied. “Only stubborn princesses who should have more sense than to venture out on stormy nights.”
Then Damon was approaching, his mud-spattered boots splashing in puddles. In his full colours, armour and sword, Sofy barely recognised him…until he pulled off his helm, revealing a face tired and wet with rain, his dark hair plastered flat to his head. He saw Sofy and managed a weary smile.
Sofy refrained with difficulty from hugging him, settling instead for a sisterly kiss on both his cheeks. “Walk with me,” he told her. “I must present Lord Krayliss immediately to father. No doubt there are things to be said.”
“Lord Krayliss!” Sofy gasped, hurrying to walk at his side. “So that's who that big man with the beard is!”
Anyse gave up trying to cover Sofy's head, walking instead at her heels alongside a Royal Guardsman who took Damon's helm for him.
“What happened?” Sofy asked Damon as they followed the torchbearers toward Soros Square. “Why is Krayliss here? Did he come willingly? I haven't been able to discover a thing lately; it's been so frustrating!”
Damon smiled faintly. “Sasha fought a duel against Farys Varan, son of Udys Varan.”
Sofy stared at him, aghast. “A duel! Is she…?”
“Our sister is well,” Damon pronounced, with more than an edge of tension. “Farys is not.” Sofy clasped a hand to her chest with a gasp of relief. “Krayliss apparently took this as a sign from the spirits…one in particular he called the Synnich. He now claims Sasha is guided by the Synnich and has placed himself under the protection of her word. Otherwise, I'm sure he and Lord Usyn would be fighting to the death right about now.”
“A duel!” Sofy exclaimed once more, in disbelief. Past that announcement, she'd heard very little Damon said. “What was Sasha doing fighting a duel? You swore to me you'd look after her!”
“Sofy,” said her brother with exasperation, “one does not ‘look after’ Sasha, any more than one ‘looks after’ a wild animal. She does what she does, and the best any in her vicinity can hope is to remain alive at the end of it.” And to Sofy's continuing, accusatory stare, he added, “Farys insulted Krystoff's memory. It was calculated, I'm sure his elders put him up to it.”
“Oh dear lords,” Sofy exclaimed. And shook her head in despair. “Old family history. I swear nothing causes more catastrophes in this kingdom than old family history. Shall we ever be free of it?”
“Twelve years is not old history, Sofy,” Damon said sombrely. “I remember Krystoff well.” Sofy gazed at him. He seemed more serious, somehow, than when he had left. More adult. The look in his eyes was the look of a young man concerned with matters far greater than himself. Prior to this ride, there had not been so many of those.
“What is it, Damon?” Sofy asked him. “What happened out there?”
Damon sighed and shook his head. “I'll tell you later,” he said.
The road opened onto Soros Square, a vast expanse of stone paving centred by the Verenthane Angel of Mercy. On the left were grand stone buildings fronting the square with ornate facades, pillars, arches and windows. To the right, the great front gate, open to the traffic of early evening and surrounded by many guards who warmed themselves near the blazing fires beyond the wall.
“Sasha sends her love,” Damon added.
“She is coming to Rathynal?” Sofy asked.
“She'd better,” Damon said darkly. “Krayliss will make a fuss if she doesn't.”
“And Kessligh?”
“That was the impression.” Sofy was glad to hear that…and yet nervous, too. There were probably only three men she'd known in her life whom she'd never been able to charm: Her father, Koenyg and Yuan Kessligh Cronenverdt. He loved Sasha, that was clear to her, even if Sasha was sometimes uncertain, and the relationship they shared was utterly remarkable in its unlikeliness. And yet, somehow, when he looked at Sofy, she felt it was as if he saw straight through her and was considering the texture of her bones.
“Oh well,” she sighed, trying to get her thoughts back into order. “More people. I swear I'll go crazy trying to remember them all.”
“I doubt Kessligh will be attending the events you're organising,” Damon reassured her.
“No?” Sofy said, with a sudden, humorous inspiration. “You're certain he wouldn't like a formal dance? Perhaps a tour of the artworks? Or maybe some flower arrangements? Arrangements are all the fashion in Petrodor now, it's becoming quite an art.”
“I'm sure all the important people will have far more important matters to attend to,” Damon retorted. Sofy scowled at that. “Particularly Kessligh.”
“Not true!” said Sofy, skipping sideways to jab a delighted finger at him. “Kessligh loves gardening, Sasha's told me all about his precious vegetable patch! She says he even grows ythala flowers in rows between the vegetables because they're good for the soil!”
Damon sighed and swiped at his flattened hair, now a little damp in the light rain. “Nasi-Keth are strange,” he said with a shrug. “I know Sasha doesn't have much time for flower arrangements.”
“I don't know about that! Sasha loves all wild things.”
“Exactly. She wouldn't understand why you need to cut its head off to make it look pretty. And I'd agree with her.”
“Well, at least it wasn't the two of you who fought the duel,” Sofy said with a meaningful sideways look. “It sounds like you have finally become at least civil with each other.” Damon nodded glumly, but his attention was wandering. They passed the square's central statue, the angel's wings and outstretched arms making a ghostly silhouette against the gloomy sky. Ahead, the spires of the Saint Ambellion Temple soared into the night. “Damon, what's wrong? Why are you so brooding?”
Damon's jaw tightened as he walked. “I sent a scout from the Falcon Guard to follow the Hadryn,” he said in a low voice. “Several scouts, actually. They volunteered. I was worried our wise Lord Usyn might do something stupid.”
“Like?”
“Attack the Udalyn,” Damon said grimly. “Every bit of Goeren-yai trouble the Hadryn get from Krayliss, they conveniently blame on the Udalyn. It's as good an excuse as they've had in decades. And with father's mind as it is lately, I don't know if he'll stop them.”
Sofy did not pretend to understand everything about those old troubles…except that the Hadryn had wanted to destroy the Udalyn since long before there was ever a Lenay king. But she did understand some of Damon's responsibilities on rides to troublesome provinces beneath the king's banner. “Are you allowed to send scouts across the Hadryn border?” she asked anxiously.
“They're scouts,” Damon said shortly. “Wild men of Lenayin. They go where they please…and, like I said, they volunteered.”
Sofy guessed that the answer to her question, therefore, was “no.” She gave her brother a long, misgiving look. “I hope you know what you're doing,” she said quietly.
Damon sighed. “Me too.”
The procession passed the wide steps leading up to the doors of the great temple. The Royal Palace loomed opposite, its many tall windows ablaze with light, guards waiting at the doors to the Grand Hall entrance. They crossed the road from the temple to the palace and climbed the wet stairs, Damon recalling his manners to offer an arm to his sister, approaching those doors.
Through the grand foyer, with tile-patterned floors and busts of family-long-dead, then into the hall proper. The ceiling arched high overhead, beneath which four enormous chandeliers hung suspended along the hall's length. The procession's footsteps echoed in the vast space. Groundsmen extinguished their torches and departed, replaced by the senior hall master of the hour, leading the way with brown robes and a formal stride. Large paintings and tapestries looked down from the high walls. Ahead, servants scurried, preparing to open the doors to the throne hall.
“Are you invited?” Damon asked, as Sofy showed no sign of stopping.
“Assuredly,” Sofy said sweetly. And it was Damon's turn to fix her with a wary glance. A princess at the king's formal business? Surely not. But Damon said nothing.
The servants hauled the doors open with a squeal of weight-bearing hinges. Damon and Sofy walked the throne hall together, its many tall columns forming a row down the central aisle toward the raised dais and its throne. Along that length, many Royal Guards stood to attention…and Sofy wondered if it were merely her imagination, or whether those guards truly were as attentive and edgy as they appeared. Certainly there were a lot of them and their hands seemed uncommonly near their weapons, resting upon the hilt of a sword or with thumbs tucked into a belt.
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 Baen-Tar 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 women 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 actually 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 Goeren-yai 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 Goeren-yai'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.”