“You know, Koenyg, I really don’t care.” She was suddenly feeling beyond all of this. “You figure it out. Instead of making constant excuses for doing the wrong thing, for once you can think of a good excuse to do something right.”
Damon threw aside the flap to the royal tent. The dining tables had been cleared, replaced now by chairs, small tables and braziers to ward the cold. Lord Elen, their host, stood in animated conversation with Koenyg, while King Torvaal looked on. Willem Hoeshel hovered nearby, anxious and pale, offering possible translation. The conversation, of course, was in Torovan.
Lord Elen’s two minor lords made way as Damon approached with the army’s senior priest Father Syd…with a scuttling bow that made Damon’s skin crawl. He did not like these people, with their furtive, darting glances and fearful manners. Lord Elen was a big man, as much fat as muscle, balding with long, black hair at the back, and thick whiskers down to where beefy neck met receding jaw. He dressed as lordly lowlands nobility would, house colours over armour and sword, all martial to impress the Lenay warriors.
“This man can swear to it,” Elen was insisting, pointing to another. Only then did Damon notice the Algrassian priest, an ageing, scrawny man in a threadbare black robe, leaning on a staff and shivering. “This man, he sees, and he speaks with the authority of the gods!”
“The Royal Guards are honour-sworn to protect the princess under all circumstances,” Koenyg replied flatly. “It would not matter if she were attacked by a mob of little girls wielding kitchen knives, they would kill to protect her from so little as a scratch. We’ll not hand them over to your justice, it’s impossible.”
“But, but…” Elen spread his hands. “Your Highness, this is a crime! A crime has been committed, eight of my villagers are dead! Surely there must be justice?” He looked past Koenyg, to King Torvaal. Torvaal stood deathly silent, wrapped in his black robe. Dark eyes within an impassive, lean, bearded face. Damon had barely heard him speak five words on the ride so far. He did not expect that to change now.
“The justice you suggest is impossible,” said Koenyg, folding his arms. Damon recognised that look, that stance. Had seen it too often through his childhood. It had been his torment then, but now, it heartened him. Koenyg would not give this man a hair from a Lenay guardsman’s head. “The soldiers are honour-bound to protect and obey the princess. In truth, the fault is hers. She is young and soft of heart. She acted without understanding the grave insult she would cause to your people. I trust you do not suggest that she should be punished?”
Lord Elen seemed to find that amusing, in the manner of a man confronted by an obvious fact, denied by idiots. Yet he could not say so, and so comported himself with forced dignity, fighting back exasperation.
“Of course not, Prince Koenyg. I have nothing but love and admiration for the princess, our future queen. But…there must be some reparation. What do you suggest?”
“Lenayin is not a kingdom of paupers, Lord Elen,” said Koenyg. “We can pay gold to the villagers for their loss. Name a suitable price.”
Willem Hoeshel winced. Lord Elen looked uncomfortable, and coughed. “Prince Koenyg, it would be beneath us to discuss such unseemly matters so openly.” Lords did not talk about money in the Bacosh, Damon recalled. To do so was…uncivilised. Meanwhile, peasants starved and lords dined on fine fare in opulent castles. But heavens no, gold was not discussed. “Furthermore, I fear that mere gold shall be insufficient. In the Bacosh—as, I am led to believe, in Lenayin—blood is repaid in blood, and…”
“Lord Elen,” Koenyg said shortly, “what do you suggest? That I find some poor sop for you to behead at random? To appease your desire for revenge? In some few weeks, Lenayin’s finest sons shall spill their blood upon your fields to reclaim that which all your armies have been unable to win in two centuries of trying. We have marched a very long way to do so, upon your invitation. That is gift enough, don’t you think? Or would you ask more?”
There was no mistaking the dangerous edge to the prince’s tone. Lord Elen’s faint humour vanished and he inclined his head. “No, my Prince. Forgive me, this is a difficult situation. At least, allow us to reclaim the two criminals that the princess has freed, and restore our justice upon them.”
“The boy died,” said Damon. All present turned to look at him, and Father Syd. “His bones were showing, our healer thinks there was an infection too.”
Lord Elen inclined his head once more, as though to acknowledge a good thing. “The other one, then,” he requested.
“He was ten,” Damon continued. Koenyg was staring at him, warningly. Damon did not care. “The girl is his sister. She is sixteen. Villagers accused their mother of laying with a man who had serrin blood. The mother was one of the two already dead. The older man was her father. I can’t see how he is responsible for his daughter’s bed partners. I suppose he was merely available.”
“My good Prince,” said Lord Elen, with a condescending, bitter smile, “I do not question your laws or customs. Please do not question that of your hosts.”
“Witchcraft,” Damon snorted. “The serrin are not witches, Lord Elen. Hate them you may, if you choose, but these charges against innocent villagers are nonsense.”
“You show great concern for the welfare of my villagers, Prince Damon,” Elen replied, “for one whose men have just murdered eight of them. What we choose to call the serrin is our business. They are unholy and ungodly, of that our priests assure us. They are a blight on this land, filling the minds of the corrupt with filth and decadence. Why, barely three years ago the forces of good made a great purge of all serrin influence and bloodlines in this region. There were fires, devil’s fruit, nooses and impaling stakes across the hills and valleys, and it was indeed a beautiful sight.”
The man’s blue eyes were wide with defiance and anger. Damon stared, feeling cold. He’d heard of the purges. The slaughters. He’d thought some of the lords, at least, might have the humanity to feel embarrassed. Serrin had rarely even visited these lands; it was unlikely any of the several thousand killed had been guilty as accused.
“Nothing ungodly about the serrin,” Father Syd growled. Lord Elen’s wide blue eyes turned upon the big priest. “Serrin are gentle folk. Their only crime is words, while others who call themselves godly impale innocents with steel. The scripture of Saint Vestos says all evil is flowered in the souls of men. Gods have nothing to do with it, and serrin neither.”
“And this is what passes for the faith in Lenayin, I presume?” Lord Elen asked the gathering.
“You will not presume to teach the faith to our lowlands guests,” Koenyg told the priest, sharply.
“You speak for your armies, Your Highness,” Syd retorted fiercely. He was a big man, looking more a warrior with cloak, beard and staff than a man of faith. “I speak for the faith in Lenayin, not you.”
Lord Elen blinked in astonishment. He looked further astonished that Koenyg did not strike off Syd’s head for the insolence. Koenyg merely ground his teeth and fumed. Lord Elen repressed a laugh, to see the fractious, uncivilised Lenays arguing so, priest against prince in the presence of others. The old, shivering Algrassian priest merely stared, uncomprehending. Not much Torovan spoken in these parts save amongst the nobility, Damon guessed.
“Highnesses,” said Elen, swallowing his amusement with difficulty. “If you please, I would collect the remaining criminal and be gone. There will be angry families to answer to, and reparations to make.”
Damon stared at the man, and at Koenyg, and his stern, silent father. They would marry his Sofy to the likes of this? For a moment, he felt almost sick with fury.
“You may take her,” Koenyg said impassively. “I shall accompany you. There will be my sister and her guards to deal with.” Lord Elen bowed.
Koenyg swept past Damon, with a glare that nearly made him flinch. Furious as he was, still a glare from Koenyg could make his knees tremble. Lord Elen and his cronies followed Koenyg, and Damon strode fast to confront his
father.
“My Lord,” said Damon, his voice trembling. “You will allow this?” His father’s dark eyes bore into his own. “Is this the mercy of our gods?”
Within the tent, deathly silence, save the gentle rain that fell on the canvas above. The king looked away.
“Have you nothing to say?” Damon asked. “We march to make war on good people, in the name of murderers and thieves who would despoil all that is good in the Verenthane faith, who would slaughter thousands of innocents, to unite their lands and rally their people in terror of imaginary evils, and you say nothing? Thousands of Lenay families will lose fathers, brothers and sons to this cause, and your only reply is silence?”
“Lad,” said Father Syd, laying a hand on his prince’s shoulder. “That’s enough.”
“The path has been chosen,” said King Torvaal. His voice sounded strained, as though roughened by lack of use. “The destiny of Lenayin is Verenthane. We fight for the Verenthane cause, the holiest of the holy causes. We reclaim the holy lands for the faith. The gods have ordained it.”
“Are you certain?” Damon pressed, desperately. “Have you seen it? With your own eyes?” His father had spent so many days in prayer, since the death of his heir and Damon’s eldest brother Krystoff, nearly thirteen years before.
Damon searched his father’s face, for the consolation of knowing that the king, at least, knew this cause to be a just one. That he would not sacrifice so many lives without the certainty of righteous truth.
His father’s dark eyes stared back. And again, he looked away. Damon no longer wanted to strike someone. He wanted to cry.
He turned and strode from the tent, out into the rain. Father Syd followed, and a pair of Royal Guardsmen joined to their flanks. Great Lord Ackryd of Taneryn nearly walked into him from another tent, reversing quickly.
“Bad?” Ackryd asked, watching Damon warily. Damon snorted furiously, glad the wetness of his eyes could be explained in part by the rain. Ackryd was the third new great lord to be appointed after the Udalyn Rebellion, following the deaths of Usyn Telgar of Hadryn and Cyan Asynth of Banneryd in battle. Taneryn’s previous Great Lord Krayliss had lost his head at the order of the king for sedition. Ackryd had then been Captain Ackryd of the Red Swords, one of Taneryn’s two standing companies, and had joined Sasha to fight for the Udalyn against the northern Hadryn and Banneryd. His role in that battle had gained him enough credit with Taneryn’s various village leaders and great warriors to get him selected Krayliss’s replacement at the last Taneryn Rrathynal.
“We march to Loth, Lord Ackryd,” Damon snarled. “To Loth!”
“You’ll not speak such words, lad,” Father Syd cautioned, striding close behind.
“Your Highness,” Ackryd pressed, “we Taneryn hear rumours that this incident with the princess was arranged by the northerners. Is it true?”
“I’m sure they’d love to have thought of it,” Damon muttered.
“It is true, then?”
“No, it’s not true man!” Damon snapped. “Pay your wits more attention and your rumours less! The northerners want this war most of all, they need Sofy married safely to Prince Balthaar, however much they dislike her.”
“You accuse them of rational common sense,” Ackryd growled. “Those fanatics are as stupid as they are evil—”
“If it please you, Lord of Taneryn, I’ve more important matters to hand than Taneryn’s old wars with—” Damon broke off, as he heard screams from ahead. A woman’s screams. They sounded frighteningly familiar.
Damon ran, Ackryd, Syd and their men running behind, toward the commotion. Royal Guardsmen held a gathering press of men back from the entrance to Sofy’s tent, shouting angrily and threatening with weapons those who thought to push through.
Damon shoved others aside, and the guardsmen let him through. Inside, several men were shouting, but the broader entourage were silent. The servants’ faces were shocked and pale. There was Sofy, in the arms of two of her maids, her face tear streaked. Before her stood Yasmyn Kraal, her darak drawn, warily guarding her princess.
The shouting men were Koenyg, and one of the Bacosh lords. Between them lay the rescued villagers. The boy, covered with a blanket, and his surviving sister…now impaled with Lord Elen’s sword. Her eyes stared sightlessly at Lord Elen, her weatherworn dress drenched in blood. Lord Elen straightened his neck self-righteously, and withdrew his blade. The girl’s body lurched as it came out, limp and bony. Sofy was sobbing. Those had been her screams.
“Upon the princess’s own hearth!” Koenyg was yelling furiously. “Have you no honour?”
“Our lands, our justice!” the other lord yelled back. Lord Elen wiped his blade with his cloak, looking most unbothered by it all. Pale blue eyes met Damon’s, and he gave a cold smile.
Damon drew his blade and strode forward. A Bacosh soldier saw Damon’s intent, drew his own blade and interposed himself. Koenyg yelled, drawing his own blade, as others did likewise. Damon smashed through the soldier’s weak defence, his edge driving into the man’s shoulder, then sidestepped and cut through his middle. A second came at his left, Damon half step-faked, then dropped back as that man’s blade whistled past, then tore through jaw and throat with his counter stroke.
There were yells and confusion, Lord Elen stumbling backward, sword raised to ward the impending attack as two surviving soldiers and two minor lords made a barrier between him and the enraged Lenay prince. Damon would have gone through them, but Koenyg was there on his right flank, weapon ready, yelling at him to stop. In all their years of rivalry, Damon had only bested Koenyg in a full sparring sequence once. Should he continue his attack, he would expose to Koenyg his flank. And he had no confidence that his brother would not take that available opening.
“A duel!” Damon yelled furiously at Elen, pointing his sword. “I’ll have you to the death, here and now!”
“Enough!” Koenyg bellowed. “You’ve done enough!”
“This is an outrage!” Lord Elen was yelling, in fright and fury, his round face flushed bright red. “By what honour would you do murder on an invited guest?”
“The wound is deep,” Damon snarled in Lenay, “and can only be salved with blood!”
“You don’t know what you say!” Koenyg said furiously, also in Lenay. “You don’t know what you say, and you shall retract…”
“The wound is deep and can only be salved with blood!” Damon insisted, his blade an unwavering pointer at Lord Elen. Koenyg hissed in exasperation. It was the traditional challenge, the one in hot blood, not the ceremonial. It was what was said in countless squares, fields and hearths across Lenayin, when tempers grew too great and insults thrust too deep, and two men’s lives made a dissonance that could only be resolved with death.
“What is this barbarian garble you speak?” Lord Elen demanded in Torovan. “Don’t you point that blade at me, or by the great gods you’ll regret it!”
“He has the right,” said Father Syd, also in Lenay, ignoring the Algrassians. The big priest pushed in behind, close between Damon and Koenyg, yet not so foolhardy as to stand directly between them.
“He has no right!” Koenyg declared. “We are guests on Algrassian lands….”
“Don’t you speak in tongues in my presence!” Lord Elen demanded. “Of what do you speak?”
“Your death!” Yasmyn Izlar said.
“I’ll not be threatened by a scabby, slanty eyed, barbarian wench!” Elen roared. “I’ll have your head, I tell you!” The Isfayen girl paid him little heed, her eyes only for Damon, alive and gleaming with admiration.
“He stepped past the talleryn stones,” Father Syd continued, now in Torovan. “He paid his respects. This is Lenay land, it is consecrated by our hearth, our food and our tents. We sleep upon the ground, we slay animals for our feast, and now, it has been further claimed with blood.”
“What are you talking about, you babbling fool?” Elen retorted. “I have been attacked, one of my men has been slain!” The other, on t
he ground behind Damon, was now rising, with the assistance of guardsmen. “The regent shall hear of this outrage! I shall demand satisfaction, and punishment!”
“You are being offered satisfaction,” Father Syd told him, an impassive rock in the face of the Algrassian’s bluster. “A fair fight. A prince against a lord. The gods will decide.”
“Don’t be absurd! I’ll not follow your barbarian customs! I am the Lord of Liside Vale, these are my lands, these are my ways, and I shall choose the reclaiming of my own honour!”
“I saw him pay respects at the stones!” Great Lord Ackryd cut in, from the back by the tent entrance. “He came upon our hearth, our camp, and he submitted himself to our ways. He has conducted himself without honour, he has slain innocents, he has offended a Lenay princess and made her grieve. If Prince Damon’s challenge is rejected, I volunteer my own! He shall accept, or he shall die here, right now! Ayalrach entyr dalan!”
“Ayalrach entyr dalan!” came the reply, from surrounding Lenay men, nobles and soldiers alike. Even, Damon noted, from some of Sofy’s maids, and not merely from Yasmyn. “Honour before gold,” it meant, in Lenay. Gold was not at issue here, but the saying was understood by all in the highcountry. Honour was everything. Some matters, even the highest lords could not weasel their way out of. At the intonation, even Koenyg looked sullenly resigned.
Lord Elen was not a stupid man. He seemed to sense that something had changed. “I am an important man with the regent!” he declared. “The regent’s sister is my cousin through marriage. I am not some lowly man-at-arms to be subjected to barbarian justice.”
“We are the army without which the regent cannot win his war,” Koenyg said darkly. “This is the future queen of all the Bacosh. You have offended her, and Lenay honour with it, and badly misjudged your own standing, Lord Elen. There is a reason why lowlanders tell fearful tales of the Lenay hoards. It would have been better had you recalled.”
Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three Page 17