Ryssin gave him a toothy grin. “Where've you been, lazy boy?” It wasn't especially funny or clever, but Jaryd laughed all the same. These were some of the most irreverent men he'd ever met and their manner was growing on him.
They ran across the narrow street and into a narrower alley. Then a new street, and here were five horses, saddled and waiting, held by a nervous stableboy. Jaryd ran to the lad, the others close behind.
“These for us?”
“A…Aye, M'Lord Jaryd,” the boy stammered, and gave a little bow. Jaryd looked at the boy for a moment. Not everyone in Algery had forgotten, it seemed.
Sofy took the horse nearest his, and Jaryd quickly moved to help her mount, but she was swinging herself up before he could do so. He swallowed his surprise and leapt quickly astride. His bruised face hurt, and his ankles and wrists ached where the metal had pressed, but there was a surge of fire through his veins now. So close. He'd been staring down at the town square since the morning, studying the guards, noting which of them might be friendly, guessing at the placement of men within the temple…and wishing he had a horse and a sword.
“This way,” said Teriyan, pointing down the street away from the square, “there's a perimeter road along the river to the bridge, the bridge has Falcon Guard on it, they'll let us past and then-”
“You go,” said Jaryd. “I'll catch up.”
“And where the Verenthane hells do you think you're going?” Teriyan demanded.
Jaryd's horse seemed to smell his rider's mood, for she stamped and skittered, tossing her head. “I came here with business to attend to,” Jaryd said grimly. He was so close. “And I'll attend it.”
“Listen, you little snot,” Teriyan snarled, “I didn't just risk my neck getting you rescued so you could go and get yourself killed!”
Jaryd wheeled his mare, but it was Sofy, to his astonishment, who caught his bridle. “What are you doing?” she asked, brown eyes wide with horror. “You can't do this to me!”
“To you?” Jaryd shook his head. “What the hells does this have to do with-”
“I came all the way from Baen-Tar to save you!” Sofy cried. “Me, a princess! Have you any idea what I risked for you?” The desperation in her voice surprised him. He'd shouted like that himself. At Tarryn, in his dreams. “Come back!” he'd cried. “Don't leave me!”
But the temple…the wedding…and the sword at his hip. He wrenched his mare's head away from Sofy's hand. “I said I'll catch up!” he insisted, with a final glare, this time at Teriyan. “Don't you follow, you've a princess to look after, and she's far more important than me!” He turned and pressed his heels to the mare's flanks. The streets were mostly empty and he moved at a trot, not daring a gallop on slippery cobbles. He knew the way well enough, ahead was the square, and revenge. He could smell it.
The square opened up before him as he burst between food stalls, scattering alarmed townsfolk. The temple loomed to his right, its spires awash in golden sunlight. Guards’ helms gleamed about the main steps, the clustered townsfolk nearest the temple all in their Ranasday best. It was, of course, impossible. But when Jaryd Nyvar had a horse and a sword, nothing was impossible. In his life, it seemed now perfectly clear, a horse and a sword were the only things he'd ever truly had. The only things to be relied upon. He kicked the mare hard and accelerated.
Jaryd drew his sword and held it high so that it caught the fall of sunlight and gleamed. The crowd split, screaming and shoving. Then he was amongst them, slowing so as not to ride them down, pushing through as though the mare were fording a river. He heard yelled orders and warning shouts from the guards, and one rider coming at him…he swung the mare, her shoes slipping on the cobbles, nearly falling…switched hands to lash at that man's approach. He met a firm parry and urged the mare fast toward the temple steps, only to be cut off by another rider. Jaryd ducked low as lagand had long ago taught him, twisted the mare about once more, judging where her hindquarters would find the steps, and used that height to come down on the new attacker with a hard slash. The man parried and replied, but Jaryd tapped heels at just the right moment, allowing him the angle to parry sideways and swing straight into a hard cut that took the other man clean from his saddle.
The first man was back, and Jaryd simply charged the mare into his path…the other horse reared, shying away. The rider lost balance momentarily, and Jaryd did not. He slashed, and that man went straight down with a scream and smashed into the pavings.
Two more were careening across the base of the broad temple steps toward him…only the nobles, Jaryd realised with a jolt. The soldiers just watched. They were Falcon Guard and he had once fought at the head of their column.
“Ha!” he yelled, urging the mare toward the attackers. From several guardsmen, he could have sworn he heard a yell of encouragement. Jaryd charged between the two horses, pure suicide, then he feinted left, pulling up as if in fear…the man on the right swung out a little to round his rear, and take his blindside while the other hit him from the front…only Jaryd dug in his heels once more, and charged straight at him. The man on the left tried to close the gap, but it was suddenly too big, and his horse's hooves slipped. Too fast, Jaryd was inside the right-man's swing before it had even begun, striking him to the face with the sword hilt.
He rounded on the other man, slashing once and twice. The defender parried with skill, urging his horse to leap forward, gaining space while twisting in the saddle to guard his rear. Jaryd jostled the other horse's hindquarters, pushing, not allowing it to steady…a sudden skid and the other horse went down, its rider crashing to the pavings as his seat disappeared from under him. A yell from the guardsmen, clear now above the screams and confusion of the crowd,
Jaryd dug in his heels and the mare sprang forward up the steps, skipping unevenly to find her footing on the broad flagstones. The two noble guards at the temple doors took one look at him and scrambled to safety. He reared the mare before the doors, her hooves lashing…and the doors crashed open.
Within, all eyes turned to look. Algery Temple was huge. Sunlight spilled through stained glass high above, scenes of the suffering of Saint Ambellion, of the mercy and justice of the many Verenthane gods. All pews had been cleared away for the wedding. The crowd of lords, ladies and their children stood along the centre aisle, stretching their necks to see what happened before the altar. Now they shrank aside, staring in disbelief as the ex-heir of Tyree, a blood-stained blade in hand, rode a frothing warhorse down the temple aisle.
Jaryd rode erect. Let them see his fury. Let them see his contempt. He wanted them all to know how little he cared for their ways, and their respect. The mare began to prance. He'd had no idea she could do that, but it seemed his legs and hands had unconsciously demanded it, and the horse had responded. Good girl. All around him, he saw more than disbelief and incredulity. He saw fear.
Ahead, before the altar, all of Tyree's most wealthy lords and ladies were gathered, garbed head to toe like preening birds. They, too, turned to gawk. Musicians stood to the altar's sides, instruments stilled. All mouths were open in silence. The mare's steel-shod hooves rang clear through the temple, echoing off the high ceiling like the march of vengeance herself.
A slow, mesmerised fading began, women pulling children back to the safety of the columns that lined the temple's sides. Before the altar, men pulled swords and blocked his way. Beneath the altar itself, Jaryd saw now his sister Galyndry, surrounded by a clutch of of women.
Opposing her was Harvyd Iryani-older and taller. Jaryd spied his father, Lord Iryani, nearby and recalled him dining at the Nyvar table, sharing laughter and wine with his father. Other men, other lords, their sons, their daughters…all had dined at his table, or played lagand with him and his brothers, or gossiped with his sisters.
Jaryd halted the mare before them and she reared, wary of all the drawn steel.
“Jaryd!” his sister cried. “Have you gone mad!”
Jaryd's eyes searched the crowd as he whipped the mare into several tight, wheeling turns, sending men scampering back from her dangerous hindquarters. This was a warhorse, and she'd been trained to kick when men with swords came too close. Then he saw him-Great Lord Arastyn-behind several armed cousins, staring in disbelief.
“You!” he snarled, pointing with his bloodied sword. “Treacherous scum! You can have your great lordship, you can wear that golden cloak, no matter how blood-spattered it be, I care nothing for the title now. But I demand revenge! You murdered my little brother!”
“Jaryd!” came Galyndry's sobbing cry. “Jaryd, no he didn't! It was all a big mistake, Jaryd…”
Jaryd whirled the mare once more. “How much did they pay you, bitch?” he roared at her. “Does all that gold and finery lessen the pain? Do golden coins truly soak up the pools of a brother's blood? Will you cry with pleasure tonight as you're fucked by a man whose hands are red with Tarryn's blood?”
Galyndry collapsed into the arms of her wedding brood, sobbing hysterically. The priest and his assistants, clutched their books and holy symbols, silent and pale.
“Jaryd,” came a new voice, more measured. Wyndal stepped into the open between the horse and the altar. He was grandly dressed like the others, slimmer than his elder brother, not as tall, and nearly blond against his brother's light brown. “Jaryd, you've no right to do this. A girl is married once in her life. You can't ruin it.”
“I came for you,” Jaryd said thickly. His voice caught in his throat. “I heard they were going to murder you too. But it was a trap. Wasn't it, brother?”
Wyndal's eyes darted. His tongue licked his lips. Jaryd stared in disbelief. Cowardice was something for tales and stories. An insult to be hurled in good humour or in bad. It was something that happened to other people. In the tales, cowardice afflicted the least honourable, the most arrogant, or the one who, in some other way, broke with the code. Cowardice did not happen to good people. It did not happen to one's brother, not unless that brother was a villain from the tales…which Wyndal, for all his and Jaryd's differences, was certainly not.
Jaryd wanted to throw the accusation in Wyndal's face, to scream at him, to berate him as he'd berated Galyndry…but somehow, suddenly, it seemed pointless. He was wailing at the wind. This was the world of lords. He'd never understood it. Wyndal, Galyndry and Delya…one moment they'd been of Family Nyvar, the most powerful family in Tyree, and then Nyvar's loyal retainers had abandoned them. They had no loyal peasantry, no standing army to defend the family name, just a loose affiliation of friends and allies kept strong through intermarriage. Lose a key ally, and have all the others switch their allegiances to him, and there was nothing to break the fall.
Jaryd could fight. Fight, and ride. It was all he'd ever been truly good at. Wyndal had the skills, but not the passion. And the girls…were just girls. What was he asking them to do? To die fighting? To surrender their necks to the chopping block? To add their corpses to Tarryn's and give him more siblings to avenge?
“You leave him alone,” said Delya, emerging from the wary crowd to stand by Wyndal's side. She was tall, his eldest sister, and wore shimmering scarlet, bare at the shoulders and lined with fur. Her voice was trembling. “Jaryd, it's not as you think-Great Lord Arastyn had no choice, the other lords would never accept you as heir.”
“Then kill me, not Tarryn!” Jaryd stared around at the sea of faces and the drawn steel. “Which of you has the balls?” He pointed his sword at Arastyn. “I've challenged you to a duel already, and you refused! I repeat my challenge! Prove to your people that you're a man, and not just a killer of small boys!”
Only the presence of his brother and sisters was keeping him alive now, Jaryd knew. There were enough capable warriors surrounding him, swords in hand. They could cut down the mare, and he would follow. But they would not do it before his siblings. The fear in their eyes was not fear for themselves but for their position and their allegiances. It was precarious to be a lord in Lenayin-to look powerless was to invite ridicule, to look tyrannical was to invite rebellion. Jaryd's lip curled in contempt of them all.
“Why don't you get down off your horse, boy,” came Lord Paramys's voice, “and we'll talk like reasonable men.”
Jaryd laughed. “Aye, I'm sure that's exactly what'll happen once I get down off my horse.” He whipped the mare into another fast circle, sending men once more scampering for distance. “Look at you all. Frightened little fools, each clinging to your precious titles like a drowning man to a log in a spring flood. The flood swallowed my family, and washed the earth bare, as if they'd never been. If the great Family Nyvar can disappear, how much faster can yours? I'd laugh at you if the spectacle weren't so pathetic. I've seen the real Lenayin. I've seen how men lived before wealth and titles and lust for power came and took their honour, and their courage. Those Lenays know you for the frauds that you are. One day soon, even your Verenthane countrymen will share that contempt, and then you'll have nothing.”
His stare settled back on Arastyn. The hatred was not so intense now. He wanted very badly to kill him. But he also wanted…What did he want? Come to that, why was he even here? Why come crashing into this temple to ruin his sister's wedding? Were all these fools worth his blood and sweat? When he'd left the only people who meant anything to him standing in the lane, cursing him for an ungrateful fool? He invoked their name, to drive the point home to these thick-headed idiots, to tell them of the perspective he'd gained out in the wilds of Valhanan…but only now did he realise how much that experience had meant to him.
They were leaving without him. Heading back to Baerlyn, and Lynette, who would surely be sad if he did not return, whatever her complaining. Andreyis too. And Jaegar, who would shake his head and think of something wise to say, no doubt. And the village girls who had whispered and giggled when he came near. And a princess who'd watched him leave in the alley just now, with something close to tears…
Jaryd blinked. The fury was fading fast. Sofy had said what to him? Dear spirits, what was he doing here?
He wheeled the mare about once more and kicked with his heels. There were yells from behind, and men ran to close the temple doors, but they were too late. He clattered out into bright sunshine, and slowed the mare so that she did not slip too badly on the steps. There were fewer townsfolk present now, but enough remained to scatter in panic from his path. Again, Falcon Guards stood their horses still, making no effort to pursue. About the edge of the square, Jaryd glimpsed more men on horseback, not in armour or guard colours. They were heading away, back toward the inns and the stables. That was worse, Jaryd knew. He had little time.
He rode the mare as fast as he dared on the streets, holding her wide and diving into the corners so as to lessen the skid of her hooves. Even so, she staggered and slid so hard he swore he would fall…only she recovered, avoided collision with the wall and continued. Random townsfolk darted aside, and then there was the bridge before him, with fields and orchards across the river and Falcon Guardsmen blocking the way. Yet, even as he rode, they reined aside, waving him on.
“Go, M'Lord!” one of them yelled and, as he flashed by, Jaryd recognised none other than Sergeant Garys of the Udalyn campaign. “They're ahead of you!”