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?”
“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 himself! 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 formidable 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?”