Tarryn. He was talking about Tarryn. No. Tarryn could not be dead. Not his little brother. How could anyone kill Tarryn? Just the other day, Sasha had kissed his cheek and called him a darling. Everyone liked Tarryn…of course everyone liked Tarryn, who could possibly want to kill…
Rhyst, he realised, was just staring at him, not denying a thing. The tip of his tongue protruded from one corner of his mouth, anxiety now battling fear in his eyes. Jaryd recognised the expression—Rhyst had worn it when sparring against him as a boy, deciding whether or not to attack.
“Put the sword down,” one of the new arrivals said and Jaryd saw their swords were also drawn. The old man wisely backed away. “Put it down and we'll talk about…”
Jaryd lunged and swung, one-handed, clashing the man's sword from his hand. The man cursed, leaping backward, and Jaryd swung at the other, who parried twice, desperately, as Jaryd retreated for a side hallway. Rhyst circled and tried to come at him from the side, then backed up quickly as Jaryd swung at him, fear in his eyes. Even one-handed, still they feared him. They always had. Maybe that was why…perhaps that was why they…
Jaryd turned and ran. His arm shrieked in agony, but he didn't care. He raced past several nobles and servants in the side hall. Footsteps pursued, voices echoed off the high ceiling, a general alarm being raised. Royal Guardsmen appeared ahead, weapons drawn, and Jaryd turned up a staircase, taking steps three at a time. He should not be going up, the thought occurred to him. On the ground floor or below, he might escape. But he continued up the flights regardless.
The sling slowed his ascent and his nearest pursuer was nearly upon him. Jaryd stopped abruptly, lunged back and swung. Rhyst partly deflected the blow, yet caught the blade to the face anyhow and fell to the flagstones screaming. The next pursuer stopped to attend him and Jaryd ran onward. He realised he was crying, tears wetting his face as he ran, and not from the pain in his arm. Tarryn was dead. They'd killed his little brother. It was a pain too big to be borne by one man. It needed to be shared. He would share it with them all. They too would feel this pain. All of them.
He reached the grand staircase to the palace's top floor without quite knowing how he'd reached it. There were men he recognised on the staircase, their figures outlined against the grand, two-storey windows. Their blades were drawn in response to the commotion approaching from below.
Jaryd charged up the stairs with a roar, forcing one into a stumbling retreat. The man lost balance and fell, Jaryd leaping over him to swing at the next, who backed away, parrying furiously. Then a third, whose defence crumbled beneath Jaryd's furious stroke, clutched his arm as Jaryd's blade bit deep. Agony slashed Jaryd's left thigh…the first fallen man had slashed from a downstairs crouch, and now the second took the chance to charge. Jaryd smashed his swing aside in fury and his counterslash sent him spinning to flop down the stone stairs in a bloody tangle of limbs.
Jaryd staggered up the rest of the stairs, dragging his uncooperative leg. His left arm had somehow torn free of its sling, the bandaged forearm screaming, a pain now dimmed by his leg. Beside the pain in his heart, both were as nothing.
Ahead, the hall to his father's chambers was filled with Tyree nobility, weapons drawn and eyes staring in disbelief. Jaryd charged them all, with no more regrets than that his bloody leg and broken arm would prevent him from showing them his best. Blades clashed and he drove back one man, then another, as men retreated before him, fear on their faces. The next man did not retreat and Jaryd split his belly all over the hall flagstones. They were all around him then, some approaching from behind, and he spun wildly in circles, swinging at all who dared his reach, grunting and yelling like an animal. He wounded another, then barely defended a lunge that slammed his parry back onto his chest and threw him sideways into the wall. He hit his arm, screamed, then fell against the wall, jolting his leg. The world went blank for a moment.
Then his head cleared and he tried to rise…too late, a blow struck the blade from his hand and then a kick found his leg. Shouts and yells echoed as he fell to the flagstones and blows rained down. A kick knocked him insensible, and then someone had a fistful of his hair and there was a blade at his throat. The cut did not come. He could hear voices, but not the words. There was an argument, and more yelling. He wished they'd hurry up and do it. Tarryn would be alone and frightened before the Verenthane gods. His big brother should be with him.
Soon, little mite, he thought. Soon. He could feel Tarryn near him, a warm, laughing presence. Comforting. Little mischief maker. He nearly smiled through bruised, bloodied lips. Why were they taking so long?
The cell was as cold, and as miserable, as Sasha had imagined it would be during her illicit childhood wanderings through this place. She sat on the bed—a wooden bench covered by an old, rotting blanket—and tried to be calm. There was a lamp flickering somewhere up the hall, flame dancing upon old, dark stone.
Her captors had allowed her to keep her cloak, yet it was barely enough against the chill. Her wrists throbbed where the bonds had pulled tight, and still the red marks remained. They had placed a hood over her head and wrapped her in the cloak, then loaded her onto a cart with other prisoners. The cart had then clattered up the central road of Baen-Tar—she knew because of the cobbles beneath the wheels and the jeering of locals, some pelting rotten fruit and a few stones. Hood and cloak ensured that no one knew her identity, or even that she was female. This secret, like others, would be smothered for a little while at least. How long that would last, and what the reaction would be when certain persons found out, she could not guess.
Her empty dinner tray sat upon the bed alongside. Plain bread and water, it had been. Perhaps they had expected a princess to protest, or to stick up her nose at such fare. In truth, she'd suffered worse upon the road chasing Cherrovan incursions. The tray sat empty, with barely a crumb remaining to tempt the rats. Or at least, she might have expected rats. But now, as she listened, she could hear only silence.
This, she guessed, was the oldest and most deserted of the old castle quarter. The dungeons remained the only part of the old castle still serving their original purpose. The old chieftains of Baen-Tar had made much use of their dungeons. Cherrovan overlords had ruled from here, and the chiefs of Clan Faddyn as well—as her own family had been known before the Liberation when Soros Faddyn changed his name to Lenayin to inspire the uprising against the Cherrovan. That Lenayin was now a better place could be seen by the number of empty cells stretching along vast underground halls of stone. The cold stone of Castle Faddyn's dungeons echoed with memories of bloody wars and ancient feuds long forgotten by most. Now, even the rats did not venture down here. A place so rarely occupied would offer nothing to eat.
There echoed the clank of a metal gate—the warden come to take the dinner tray, Sasha guessed. A light approached down the hall, casting new shadows in the gloom…and then—a surprise as the figure holding the lamp appeared, wrapped in a cloak with a long dress that swept the flagstone at her heels. Long hair framed an anxious face, eyes searching through the bars. Sofy.
She saw Sasha and ran the last few steps to grasp the bars opposite. Sasha climbed to her feet, slowly, not wishing a great scene. But she was very pleased to see her sister all the same, and delighted by her audacity. She only wished that Sofy's eyes would not shine so with moisture at the sight of her sister locked in this cold, dark cell below the ground.
“I'm well,” Sasha said gently, answering the unasked question. Sofy seemed to be holding back tears with effort. Sasha grasped her slim hand through the bars, with what she hoped was reassurance. “I was not hurt.”
“I heard you were with Krayliss,” Sofy said, voice hushed and eyes wide. “Anyse told me she'd heard you joined with Krayliss to smuggle a pair of Udalyn children into the city to meet father! Is that true?”
Sasha nodded. “Father did not listen, Sofy. He took Daryd, the Udalyn boy, and confined me to quarters. Your maid sent word that Krayliss had all but declared rebellion and I
suspected Koenyg might seize that chance. I tried to save the Udalyn girl, Rysha…and I nearly got away. She's alive, last I saw, but I was too late all the same.”
Sofy's eyes were incredulous. “But Sasha…you could have sent someone else! One of my maids would have carried a message! No one would have wanted the little Udalyn girl in danger…”
“I got her into it,” Sasha said stubbornly. “It was my idea to use Krayliss's camp as a hiding place for her. It was my responsibility, and I could not be certain any message would be sent in time. It was faster to do it myself…and even then, I was too late. Had I not gone, Rysha would probably be dead.”
“But Sasha, what a risk to take! Do you realise how much the Goeren-yai look to you? You are a great hope, Sasha, for so many of them…”
“And what would you know about the desires of the Goeren-yai?” Sasha snapped, in a flash of temper.
“I was talking with Anyse,” Sofy said reproachfully, wiping at her eyes. “She hears all the gossip about Baen-Tar from all the Goeren-yai staff and soldiers. They talk of you, Sasha. I think that it's largely because of you, and your known dislike of Krayliss, that none chose to follow him on the field today.”
Krayliss on his horse. The final, desperate plea across the fields. The raised sword, slowly dropping. Utterly unexpected, a lump raised in her throat for the tragedy of Lord Krayliss. It must have shattered him. A man who, above all else, desperately wished to be loved by his people. In the end, they had not returned that love. He had been selfish, brutish, bloodthirsty and, worst of all, he had misjudged the desires of the people whose hearts he had claimed to know better than any other. And yet, in that final moment of despair, he earned her pity. She knew what it was like to feel so utterly alone.
“Don't make me regret it,” Sasha muttered. “I won't kick the man's corpse while it's still warm.”
Sofy blinked. “He's not dead, Sasha.” Sasha frowned in surprise. “He lives, though not for long. They erect a stand upon Soros Square even now. Tonight, there will be executions. All the Taneryn party who survived, including Krayliss. Perhaps ten, I think.”
“He was taken alive?” That was even worse. At the very least, Krayliss would have wished martyrdom. For all his bluster, she could not believe he had shown cowardice. His bravery, at least, had surely been genuine.
“His horse fell,” Sofy explained. “Or at least, that's what I heard. He lost consciousness. But he dies tonight. Koenyg was very firm.” There was an edge to Sofy's tone, faintly cold and somewhat sarcastic. Disdain, Sasha recognised it. Disdain for the barbarities of what some men called justice.
“He attempted rebellion, Sofy,” Sasha said quietly. “He deserves death. Such is the law.”
“And does Master Jaryd deserve death?”
“Jaryd?” Sasha asked with a frown. “What did Jaryd…?”
“The lords of Tyree invoked an old law,” Sofy said breathlessly. “Jaryd's father died, and rather than accept Jaryd as the new great lord, they invoked this law and…and they dissolved Family Nyvar, Sasha! Dissolved it!”
“Sylden Sarach,” Sasha murmured, horrified. “That…that's an old pagan barbarity, how could a bunch of Verenthanes use…? What happened? Where is Jaryd?”
“In a dungeon, somewhere near here…I couldn't get in to see him, Sasha, the dungeon guards turned a blind eye to me visiting my sister, and one of them's Goeren-yai anyhow. But there's a couple of Tyree lordlings doing guard duty down by Jaryd's cell, I don't think they trust the guards here.” Sofy clutched the bars more tightly, her face fearful. “Sasha…they killed Jaryd's brother! Just a little boy, Tarryn Nyvar, they tried to take him, they tried to take the whole family, all the direct relations…but the boy stabbed his abductor and they killed him, right in the palace! It's so awful, those Tyree fools made such a mess of it, Sasha! And I always said it was so stupid to arm little boys with short blades, whatever the traditions say…”
Sasha was not listening. She felt paralysed. She remembered the little boy with freckles and sandy hair who'd sat on Jaryd's bed and chatted with a cheerful sparkle in his eyes. Sylden Sarach. An old Goeren-yai tradition, mostly abandoned now amongst the followers of the ancient ways. In disputes between chieftains over the line of succession, there was always the question of inheritance. Kill the father and the sons would grow up seeking revenge. Yet killing children was not honourable. Better to dissolve the family and adopt the children into friendly families, so that revenge would be all the more difficult for them when they came of age.
There were grand old stories about it, of heroes with torn loyalties, boys becoming men determined to avenge their dead fathers, only to find themselves in conflict with their adopted families. How could a bunch of noble Verenthanes invoke an old pagan law that the pagans themselves had long abandoned? The sheer, bloody-minded cynicism shocked her. And worse, her brother, and therefore her father, had most likely condoned it, given that it happened under their roof and their protection.
“What did Jaryd do?” she asked Sofy quietly, past the lump in her throat.
“An old Goeren-yai groundsman saw the murder!” Sofy whispered, as if scared the cold stones would overhear. “He found and told Jaryd before they could lead him into a trap and Jaryd went berserk! He killed the heir to Family Wyshal, whom I gather used to be an old friend of his…and he killed another man I don't know, and wounded three more before they overpowered him! I think Damon was there, I haven't been able to find out exactly, but someone found out what was happening and stopped them from killing Jaryd…some maids said it was Damon, but others disagree, and I can't find Damon anywhere! Sasha, I'm really scared…you don't think he'd be in any trouble, do you?”
“I don't know,” Sasha said quietly. “But if the Great Lord of Tyree is suddenly dead, that's very convenient.”
“Yes I know, isn't it just!” Sofy exclaimed, nodding vigorously. “The healers said he should have lasted several more moons at least!”
“The lords of Tyree must have asked Koenyg and father for permission,” Sasha said heavily. She put both hands in her hair, as if to try and hold her thoughts in order with that pressure alone. “They caved in. Or they agreed. Just like they agreed to let the Hadryn attack the Udalyn, and like Koenyg arranged to have Krayliss killed. The king finally needs the great lords for something, and the great lords demand all their dues paid at once, a full, accumulated century of them…all save the Great Lord of Tyree, who suddenly became a liability, thanks to his stubborn, brave, naive fool of a son.”
She turned away and stared at the bleak wall of her cell. All for a stupid holy war for a faith half of Lenayin didn't even belong to. And all because her poor, beloved pagans really were a squabbling rabble, just like the nobles claimed. Poor Jaryd. Poor, brave fool. Even if he'd known what was coming, would he have changed his course? Perhaps…but also, perhaps not. Crazy man. He was almost Goeren-yai in that. A stubbornness almost worthy of Krayliss. Or Krystoff. Or herself. All these crazy Lenays, all bent on self-destruction, and all for what? Why did they do it? Why hadn't any of them changed course when they'd had the chance?
Maybe this was what Kessligh had tried to tell her. Had struggled to drum into her thick skull, from the moment it was hard enough for him to rattle with a stanch. Beliefs are dangerous, Sasha. Be very careful what you believe in. Kessligh was gone now, headed for Petrodor. She'd cursed him for a disloyal traitor. But look at her now. Look at Krayliss. Look at Krystoff. Look at Jaryd. They'd all had the choice between pragmatism and ideals. Kessligh had taken the pragmatic option, whatever the emotional pain it cost him. She'd done what she'd always done and led with her heart instead of her head…and had ended up here.
Was this the culmination of Kessligh's last great lesson? He'd struggled to contain Krystoff's wilder impulses, but her crazy brother had alienated the north and the hardline Verenthanes, and lost his life for it. Had Krystoff in his last moments realised how he'd been betrayed, when the Cherrovan warparty had thundered down from the hills in far gr
eater numbers than Hadryn information had led him to believe? Would she finally realise the truth of this lesson also, after the sentence at her trial had been passed, and the axe was finally about to drop? At least, she thought despairingly, she'd be in plentiful company. But that was no comfort at all.
“I hate him,” said Sofy, with sudden venom. “I hate Koenyg. It's all a game to him, like a lagand contest. He wants to win, he doesn't care who gets killed.”
“Father is king,” Sasha reminded her. Sofy's vehemence surprised her. She wasn't sure she could remember Sofy ever saying that she hated anyone, let alone family. “The responsibility is his.”
“You've seen him!” Sofy protested, anger in her dark eyes. “He's like a man lost in a storm, in a world he does not comprehend any more! When he had eyes to see for himself, when the world made sense to him, he held the reins like a true king and everyone bowed to his wisdom. But now he's a blind man, groping for support in the dark, and Koenyg is the one holding his right arm. Of course father should be wiser and stronger, but the fault is Koenyg's! Koenyg should guide better, he shouldn't be so…so…”
To Sasha's consternation, Sofy's anger began to crumple into tears. She clutched her sister's hand more tightly through the bars with increasing concern. “Sofy? Sofy, what's wrong? What did Koenyg do?”
Sofy looked away, a hand to her mouth, trying to stop her lip from trembling. She took a shuddering breath. “I found out…” she began, and lost control of her voice once more. Tears flowed down her cheeks.
Sasha's concern turned to dawning fear. Koenyg had devious plans that involved Sofy? “What did you find out, Sofy?”
Sofy gasped, trying to gain control. She managed it finally, wiping her cheeks. “I found out the real reason why the Larosa are here,” she said weakly. Her eyes focused on their clasped hands. “I…I overheard…or no, I didn't overhear, I spied. I heard them talking…oh, Sasha, I'm so sorry I snapped at you before. You were right about the Larosa—Duke Stefhan is a lying, conniving, murderous…”
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