Schweet ,spoke Yasmyn’s Darak against a whetstone.Schweet, in long strokes above the clatter of carriage wheels on pavings.
Sherdaine had walls. Sofy stared out the window of her carriage, and marvelled at the sight of them, sheer and gleaming grey in the bright, afternoon sunshine. It was said that in all the Bacosh wars, Sherdaine had only been sacked twice, and both of those a time long before the construction of these latest walls. The battlements stretched a long way, enclosing what was surely the largest city Sofy had ever seen.
The Army of Lenayit kanguard rode about and before the carriage, senior lords from each province moved to the head of the column. They clattered across a small bridge, and here across the fields before Sherdaine’s walls, Sofy could see an army encamped-white tents and drifting smoke, as far as the eye could see. Her heart nearly stopped, there were so many. The army of the united, “free Bacosh,” the provinces of Algrasse, Tournea, Larosa, Meraine and Rakani, all together under the banner of the Regent Arosh of Larosa.
Riding alongside, Damon rapped the carriage door with an armoured fist. “Get your head back in. It won’t do for the bride to ride into Sherdaine like a dog on a farmcart.”
Sofy ignored him, wishing she could have ridden at her father’s side in the vanguard. Koenyg had not even bothered to reply when she’d wistfully suggested it, he merely shook his head in disbelief and continued his conversation with someone else. Damon was now banished from the vanguard’s head, appointed by Koenyg to be his sister’s protector, since, Koenyg said acidly, he seemed so determined to kill any who offended her honour. Algrassian, and lately Larosan nobility, had shown a degree of respectful caution in their nightly feasts previously unseen, particularly toward Damon. Sofy thought their behaviour vastly improved since Lord Elen’s slaying, and Yasmyn agreed. And Damon, truth be told, did not appear to resent his new duty as Koenyg might have hoped.
Sofy could now see a huge entourage awaiting across the road ahead. Knights, armoured head to toe, rowed lances pointing skyward and flying the coloured profusion of feudal heraldry. They parted as the vanguard arrived, and joined in the column’s progress, flanking the road in great lines.
Damon kicked the carriage door. “Sofy, I mean it!”
She scowled at him and flung herself back on her seat. “They can’t see sideways out of those helmets,” she said, “I don’t know what he’s worried about.”
On the seat opposite, Jeleny and Rhyana, two of Sofy’s prettiest handmaidens, sat in their finest, hair done up in ringlets laced with gold cord. Both looked apprehensively at Yasmyn, who continued to hone the edge of her darak.
“Oh Yasmyn,” said Jeleny at last, “must you?”
“In Isfayen,” said Yasmyn, “a bridesmaid must never be without two things-a sharp blade and clean undergarments.”
“It does look very sharp already, Yasmyn,” Sofy observed. “Though I cannot speak for your undergarments.”
Yasmyn grinned, and sheathed the darak on the belt she wore beneath her blue waist sash. “We ride with many lobsters today,” she said, peering out the window at the knights. “I wonder do they cook, when the sun is hot?”
Sofy found herself thinking of Jaryd. She’d been trying not to, for most of the ride. Occasionally, it was true, she’d ridden past the midportion of Valhanan’s part in the column, hoping to catch a glimpse, while at the same time pretending that it was merely coincidence that she should happen to be riding there.
It had been a mistake. If she were a truly devout Verenthane, surely she would fear for her soul…yet that was just the talk of priests, whose words of late she’d trusted less and less. Seto honedid not believe such things, nor did Nasi-Keth…nor, in fact, most of the Lenay countryside, where few lads or ladies indeed were virgins on their wedding days, and the villagers loved nothing more than a gossip of the latest lascivious tales. Only Verenthane princesses were held to such standards, and oh how she’d grown to distrust the reasons for that. It was not about religion, she was quite sure. Sasha had always told her as much-the priests and the lords, she’d said, would use such beliefs to serve the ends of power. The righteousness of the faith itself was always a secondary consideration in such matters.
Perhaps her brother Wylfred was right, Sofy thought. Perhaps she had been corrupted by Sasha’s influence over the years. Sofy knew there had been such hopes for her, the darling youngest princess, the apple of her father’s eye. But now her father was marrying her off to a strange man for the cause of a foreign war she had no interest in fighting. What she’d done with Jaryd, that half year before on the return road from Algery, had felt good. And it had been her mistake, if mistake it had been. Something of her very own, that no one could now take from her. Soon, there would be few enough of those.
But it bothered her, now, that she had not made more of an effort to see him. It would have been impossible, of course, with so many eyes upon them, but that did not stop her from fretting. Did he think of her? It was foolish to hope so, the number of women bedded by Jaryd Nyvar was more worthy of a serrin than a Verenthane noble. And he was most certainly not of a type with her, with a head full of swords and horses, and rarely a care for the passions of Sofy’s life-the arts, music, tongues and civil conversation. No, she thought-she was not bound for the hells, but it had been a mistake all the same. He was not for her, and was a landless no-name now, an impossible match for a princess. If the Larosans insisted on examining her virginity before marriage, well, she rode horses regularly and knew well enough (with more thanks to Sasha) that the activity rendered such examinations unreliable. A half year had passed, she was not with child, and none of it was any concern to her now-she was merely moping before her impending wedding, and wondering what might have been, at another time, in another life.
Yet still she thought of him, and remembered his smile.
Beyond the clustered horsemen of the vanguard, Sofy could see grand armies assembling to either side of the road. More feudal banners, rows and rows of horsemen, all the way to the gates of Sherdaine. Sofy could not tear her eyes away, a tightness growing in her throat. So many men. Such a powerful army. And all for her. The tightness in her throat was her old life dying. That carefree girl lay somewhere behind, in the distant hills of Lenayin. Sofy wished for her return, with all her heart, but that girl had no place here. That girl would be scared of this place. The Princess Sofy Lenayin could not afford to be scared with so much at stake.
Before her, the city gates opened wide, yawning black, beneath the portcullis’s rows of metal teeth. Sofy felt her heart accelerate and her breath grew short. Yasmyn clasped her hand.
“Be not afraid,” she murmured, “for all things shall end. Fear not the end, your friend and mine.”
Tullamayne, she quoted. Sofy recalled the other places she’d heard Tullamayne recited, most recently upon battlefields, at great funerals for the many fallen, upon the lips of warriors gasping their final breath. She exhaled a deep breath and felt all fear leave her, as like the spirit leaving a dying man. She was Lenay, and this fate was not hers alone, but borne upon the shoulders of countless martyred generations. She squeezed Yasmyn’s hand, as the carriage rattled on, and allowed the darkness to swallow her.
There was silver mist across the grassy fields as tens of thousands of men stirred in the morning. Jaryd finished his exercises, a mug of tea in his hand, steaming from the campfire. Baerlyn contingent, plus men of several neighbouring Valhanan villages, had claimed for a camp the land about a small farmhouse, including a track, some recently ploughed fields, and a small stream.
Lenay men greeted Jaryd as he walked to the paddock fence to see to the commotion there. He joined the men leaning on the fence and considered the cause of their amusement. Within the paddock, men were chasing an extremely large, ill-tempered bull. Or rather, the bull was chasing them. A warrior rolled aside as it charged, while two more jumped the fence, to catcalls and roars of laughter from the onlookers. The bull circled back on the man who had rolled-a magnificent animal, Jaryd thought, with huge, rippling shoulders and deadly horns, now lowered.
Jaryd’s laughter was cut short at a sudden commotion to his side, and he spun to find that Gareth, a Baerlyn man, had grabbed another man from behind and had a knife to his throat.
“I don’t recognise this one!” Gareth said suspiciously, peering at his captive’s face. “He was approaching you to the rear, Jaryd, and I don’t see him for no Valhanan man!”
The man held his hands clear. “I come with summons from Prince Damon,” he said. “He requests the company of Jaryd Nyvar.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Jaryd told the man, riding on the spare mount that had been brought. “The Tyree and Valhanan nobility all want me dead, to say nothing of the northerners. My friends keep an eye out for me.”
Prince Damon’s man nodded. “There is danger in crowds. Your friends are wise.” They rode along a road between fields crowded with the greatest encampment of soldiers Jaryd had ever seen. The ground before the walls of Sherdaine was a solid mass of tents, men and campfires. The air seethed with conversation, shouts, the clash of weapons practice, the whinny of horses and the rattle of armour. Cooking fires burned, and a mist of smoke smelled of equal parts bacon, green wood, and manure.
These were men of Larosa, Jaryd knew. Men-at-arms, for the most part-what Lenays would call militia, villagers and peasants sworn to regional lords, and pressed into service whatever their will. These men were poor, but they were gods-fearing Verenthanes, and did not relish the great numbers of pagan barbarians brought into their midst…though Jaryd thought they’d have been no happier if the Lenays had only brought Verenthane soldiers. Worse, the young Larosan Prince Balthaar was to be wed to the barbarians’ princess.
Well, Jaryd thought sourly as he rode toward the gates, there were some Lenays none too impressed with the marriage either.
Prince Damon’s man presented the guards at the gates with a Verenthane star from about his neck, which the guards examined, then returned with a wve through. Beneath the portcullis, and onto rattling paved roads, and the commotion of city life on a scale Jaryd had never seen before. There was a great courtyard to one side, fronted by a grand temple, all in the same pale stone as made for Sherdaine’s walls. It seemed there was a market in progress in the courtyard, for crowded stalls did brisk business, and the cries of sellers competed with the bellows of a town crier for attention. The temple was spectacular, with soaring spires and coloured glass windows.
Past the courtyard, they rode between buildings of stone foundation, with wood-beamed walls and small, multipaned windows. The crowds were oppressive, housewives carrying food from the market, tradesmen hauling loads on donkeys, busy cityfolk of every description going about their daily lives, and clogging up the streets. Soldiers too, though they seemed more well dressed than most, and none were Lenay. Again, more stares at the two Lenays ahorse. Jaryd did not resist the impulse to ride straight and proud, and stare down at such men with disdain.
Damon’s man led Jaryd around so many corners, and down enough crowded lanes that Jaryd soon found himself utterly lost, and without clear sight of Sherdaine’s walls or towers. Eventually they stopped before a wide wooden gate, and the man rapped on a metal panel that slid aside. A brief conversation, then the gates were opened and they dismounted to lead both horses into a private courtyard surrounded by the facing windows of a wealthy residence. Here, it was peaceful.
Jaryd left the horse in the care of a servant and followed his guide beneath a small archway and into a second, more intimate courtyard. Here he found Lenays, nobility all to look at them, seated to catch the sun though shaded by the courtyard’s central tree, eating good food and wine. None paid the new arrival particular mind, laughing and conversing with animation as Jaryd followed his guide to an open door. Within, he found Prince Damon, sitting with his back to an open window, reading.
“Ah,” said Damon, looking up with a smile, and got up to embrace Jaryd. Jaryd was surprised, but returned it gladly. Damon had saved his life, in the hallways of Baen-Tar Palace, when the Tyree nobles had been about to kill him where he’d fallen. They had ridden together to northern Taneryn with Damon’s sister Sashandra and Kessligh Cronenverdt, and Jaryd knew the prince to be no friend of his own enemies. He wondered what had inspired this invitation.
“You look well,” Damon told him, seeming genuinely pleased at that. “And beringed.” Touching the several rings in Jaryd’s ear, with some amusement. “When your hair grows a little longer, you’ll be a true Goeren-yai.”
“You look well too,” said Jaryd, not entirely truthfully. Damon looked well in that he seemed older than in Jaryd’s memory, and there was a look to his lean face that was more manly than Jaryd recalled. Yet much of that new age was worry.
“We grow older,” he admitted. “Koenyg assured me that it would happen, and I did not believe him. Please, sit.”
Jaryd drew up a chair. The quarters seemed pleasant, far from princely, but they were comfortable.
“Why are you not at the palace?” Jaryd asked.
“Actually it’s not a palace, just a castle.” Damon shrugged. “Sofy prepares. I’m little use to her, she accuses me of brooding.201C; His face fell, revealing a deep, troubled sobriety. “I’d thought as much beforehand. I sent men ahead to find me separate quarters. Being away from courtly intrigues can have its advantages, and Koenyg has tasked me with things that require a staff of my own.”
“That man,” Jaryd asked, gesturing to the door his guide had departed through. “Who was he?”
“Best you don’t ask,” said Damon. “He needs to go places and talk to people. If he is no one, that becomes easier.” Jaryd frowned. “One of Koenyg’s tasks was to help prepare the army for battle. He is concerned that for all our new equipment of shields and armour, our tactics vary from region to region, even from town to town. He warns that we need to introduce some uniformity to our battle plans, and I agree. The nobility are not such a problem, since most of them are cavalry, and cavalry tactics are more or less similar throughout Lenayin. It’s the Goeren-yai and the villagers, as always, who make the problems.”
Jaryd nodded. “I’ve been working with men of eastern Valhanan to improve our shieldwork and formations. I’ve tracked down any number of Bacosh men with experience of fighting the Steel. I think we’ve made improvements, but some men insist they don’t see the point. Luckily the headmen of Baerlyn have influence with the other villages, so they don’t argue too much, but not all regions are so lucky.”
“I know,” said Damon. “I need good men from amongst the Goeren-yai, men who know different styles of warfare. I need men I can trust, Jaryd, and who will be respected by those beneath them. I’d like you to be one of them.”
Jaryd looked at him for a long moment. It was not a surprise, on the commonsense level of preparing for war. He was certainly qualified, and Damon knew that he was honest and loyal. But for politics…
“Have you any idea of the number of people who’d like me dead?” Jaryd asked the prince.
“A mark of honour, in this company,” Damon said drily. Jaryd heard bitterness in his tone. “Northern fanatics, limp-wristed Tyree and Valhanan nobility, I’ve no care for them. Have you?”
Jaryd blinked, trying to think. Politics was not his strong suit. He had only recently come to learn, somewhat painfully, that direct assault was not always the best solution to his problems. Prince Damon challenged him to do what came naturally, expecting him to follow his instincts. It would be smart of the Dunce of Tyree, however, to consider his options first.
“Not fear of them, no,” Jaryd said carefully. “But those men have great influence with Prince Koenyg, which shall surely be trouble for you.”
Damon frowned. “I’m a prince of Lenayin,” he replied, pointedly. “I make my own decisions. Your rank shall be captain. Militia captain, it’s true, but it’s about time we formalised the militia ranks, if only for sake of convenience.”
“Are you fighting with him?”
“With who?”
“Your brother. Koenyg.”
Damon stared at him. There was a darkness in his gaze. A power that looked uld not recall having been there before.
“Surely you hear rumours,” Damon said then, gazing away, across the room.
“Highness, I’ve walked here from Lenayin,” Jaryd replied, with sarcasm. “Blisters are my friends, I carry the tackle of a common soldier, and I’ve been as far from courtly rumours as is possible within this army.”
“I have no issue with my brother. I have an issue with this war, Jaryd. I lack no courage for a fight, but look around you. Do you see Lenay interests here?”
Jaryd nodded, and gave a harsh laugh. “The people are truly friendly!” he quipped.
Damon leaned forward in his chair. “I am a Verenthane, Jaryd, but this faith that we serve is not something I recognise.” His face was intent, his voice harsh. “They fear us, and loathe us, these people. It galls them that their failures against the Saalshen Bacosh have brought them to this-an allegiance with highland barbarians, and by marriage no less! One of those barbarians shall be their queen, once the regent dies. Father and Koenyg may see the greatness of allegiance to the Verenthane powers, but all I see is our own Lenay fanatics hoping to use such allegiance to spread the faith in Lenayin and convert all pagans. To say nothing of your old friends the lords, with dreams of a feudal Lenayin. We are all being fairly buggered for another’s benefit, and I like it not.”
Suddenly, Jaryd thought he understood. The seclusion of these quarters in Sherdaine. Armed men in the courtyard. A gathering of friendly supporters.
“Do you feel yourself threatened?” he asked.
“I do not choose this out of cowardice,” Damon said warningly, and Jaryd held up a hand, shaking his head. Damon seemed placated. He smacked his leg in profound frustration. “Damn him! Koenyg thinks me a worrier, but I fear for my neck every night I sleep in castle quarters without my personal guard from the road. There are many discontents, Jaryd, and if something happened to me, they would have no one to speak for them.”
Jaryd nodded slowly but he had no idea what to say.
“I would not choose to abandon Sofy so close to her wedding, but…” Damon grimaced, and glanced over his shoulder at the courtyard beyond the window. “This army may split, Jaryd, truly I fear it. Oh, the provinces are spoiling for a fight at the moment: Lenayin is a land of warriors and has never fought a united battle as a kingdom…hot-headed men think it’s about damn time, and think nothing for the rightness of it. But when the Goeren-yai are tired of being used as fodder for foreign Verenthanes who care not a jot for them, and see all the rewards heaped upon northern fanatics who hate them worse than those we fight…”
He shook his head, despairingly. “I chided Sasha, once, for thinking to champion the cause of the Goeren-yai. Now I find myself realising as she did, that if we lose the Goeren-yai, we lose Lenayin.”
“Ever think,” said Jaryd, “that if we lost the nobility, we’d lose nothing at all?” Damon was silent. “Lenayin needs nobility like a bull needs tits.”
“Now you sound like Sasha,” Damon muttered. He gave Jaryd a dark look. “My sister. Did you fuck her?”
Jaryd coughed and managed, somewhat suicidally, a roguish grin. “Which one?”
“Surely not Sasha?” said Damon. Jaryd shrugged. Then shook his head, reluctantly, beneath that hard stare.
“Not Sasha,” he admitted. “Though she did make very friendly with one of those serrin who came to help in the rebellion. Errollyn, that was his name.”
“Sasha can fuck who she likes,” Damon snorted, “it makes naught of an issue for anyone. Sofy is another matter.”
“Why do you ask?”
“She was very different after she returned from her little adventure to Baerlyn. Only she didn’t just travel to Baerlyn, did she? Or she tells me she didn’t.”
Jaryd blinked. “She told you?”
“I’m her friend, Jaryd. Not merely her brother. We tell each other things. It makes us a formidable pairing, one that some would love to see broken. I know she rode with you to Algery. What she would not tell me was if anything happened between the two of you. But I suspect. I may not have women’s intuition, but I know my sister.”
Jaryd felt a surge of anger. “Look, either state your accusation or don’t!” he snapped. “Good gods, what do you want from me, an admission to something that should by law cost me my head?”
“‘Good spirits,’” Damon corrected. Jaryd stared, not understanding. “You are supposed to be Goeren-yai now, you say ‘Good spirits,’ else someone take you for a fraud.” Pointedly. Jaryd felt his face redden with anger. “Furthermore, I do not wish you to lose either honour or head. I merely wish to ask if you’d like to see Sofy once more. Before she weds, in private. I can make that happen.”
“For the last time, I am not wearing that dress!” Princess Sofy Lenayin was not happy. She stood in the middle of a grand Larosan hall already decked out for the wedding, with great banners lining its walls. About her were Larosan priests, women of the Merciful Sisters, palace officials, numerous servants and an awful lot of dresses. The servants stood in a circle about her, each holding a dress, and struggling beneath their weight.
“Well then perhaps Your Highness could indicate precisely which wedding dress she would choose?” asked Master Hern, a portly, white-bearded man in an official’s cloak and hat.
“None of them!” Sofy said angrily. “There must be something in this wedding that shall be Lenay!”
“There shall be yourself, my dear,” the Princess Elora remarked, examining her nails on her seat nearby. “Surely that is adequate?”
Sofy struggled to control her temper. Princess Elora was soon to be her sister-in-law. She was a lean girl in her early twenties, and wore several times the jewellery that Sofy considered decent for a person of any station. Sofy thought she looked a little horsey. Perhaps she was overcompensating.
The Maris Tere, or “First Matron” of the Merciful Sisters was no longer present. On the first day, she had insisted that Sofy wear the white of Larosan maidenhood and that she cover her hair in the torhes foud, the pious shroud, of a girl to be wed. She had demanded that Sofy spend the next two days in the Sherdaine Temple “cleansing” herself in ritual prayer, presumably to remove the stain of a lifetime of barbarian practices.
When Sofy had refused, the First Matron had become angry, and slapped her. Yasmyn had struck her back, hard enough to drop the old woman to the ground, and drew her darak on the others who sought to retaliate. Blood had nearly been spilt, and Yasmyn plus Sofy’s four-strong contingent of elite Royal Guards had escorted the bride-to-be to a deserted chambers and kept her there under guard until Koenyg, Princess Elora, and numerous lords and other importances had settled the misunderstanding.
Many of the Larosan court still demanded that Yasmyn be executed for her impudence, but were no longer demanding it so loudly after Koenyg had explained that executing the daughter of Isfayen’s Great Lord Faras would be taken by the Isfayen as declaration of war, upon which event there was nothing any man of Lenayin could say to hold them. Now, Sofy caught Yasmyn staring at her. Her dark, slanted eyes beheld more knowledge of her princess than any other in the room.
“Your Highness is a nice girl,” Yasmyn had said when they were alone, in the sarcastic tone of an Isfayen delivering a calculated insult. “She does not like to fight. People who do like to fight will see this, and challenge her with their blades until they back her up against a wall and there is nowhere left to run. Your Highness must realise that she cannot win a sword fight with a pretty smile and a silver tongue.”
Sofy looked about at the dresses and took a deep breath. “None of these will do,” she announced. “I shall decide my own attire for the wedding. I shall dress according to Lenay marital custom. I shall keep my own council only. Now thank you,” and she made a dismissive gesture to the dress-wielding servants, “we have other matters to attend to.”
Master Hern licked his lips nervously. “Your Highness, I do not think that it is wise-”
“Not wise?” Princess Elora challenged, rising to her feet in indignation. “It’s improper! A wedding of Larosan royalty is not a matter of highland dresses and flower decorations, there is a grand tradition of many centuries-”
“As there is a grand tradition of millennia in Lenayin,” Sofy said firmly. “I am not a Larosan, Princess Elora, I am a Lenay, and this marriage is a marriage between two peoples, not a subjugation of one to the other.”
“There is no question of a Larosan bride attending such a wedding in improper attire!” Elora insisted as though she had not heard her. “The offence to the gods and the Larosan peoples, and indeed all the peoples of the free Bacosh, would be incalculable!”
“Then perhaps we could change these decorations?” Sofy suggested, indicating the feudal heraldry draping the surrounding walls. “To announce the rights of feudal nobility so loudly as this is surely offensive to many in Lenayin; I think some Rayen tapestries, and some flower garlands in the western style, would make a notable improvement…”
“Your Highness,” Master Hern attempted to intervene, “to remove the feudal heraldry would be a grave insult to the lords of Larosa and beyond….”
“Then perhaps the timing of the ceremony,” Sofy suggested reasonably, “according to the Lenay star charts instead of the Larosan tradition-”
“Impossible!”
“Thus I must again insist,” said Sofy, her tone hardening, “that since so much of this wedding has been arranged without prior consultation, that those few remaining choices to be made must be resolved in favour of Lenayin!”
Master Hern glanced at Princess Elora. Elora sighed, and dismissed the servants with a wave of her hand.
“What does Your Highness request?” Master Hern asked.
“Dress,” said Sofy, ticking a finger. “Music.” Another finger.
“Not at the ceremony!” Elora protested.
Sofy smiled thinly. “We have no music at the ceremony,” she said. “No pagan drumming to drown out the recitals, have no fear. But at the feast.” Master Hern bit his lip. “Food,” said Sofy, ticking a third finger.
“Dear sister,” said Elora, “now would be a good time to ask…exactly what do Lenays like to eat?”
“Roasts,” said Sofy, with a brightening smile. She could picture it now, the elements coming together in her head. “We’ll build a great firepit in the centre hall, and roast steer or sheep or whatever you prefer. Great heat and cooking food, it should be quite a sight.”
Elora and Hern looked at each other. “That does not sound impossible,” Master Hern admitted. “But we should have Larosan dishes too from the kitchens.”
“Of course!” said Sofy, unable to contain her building enthusiasm. She’d always loved to arrange such events. Now, she could build something of symbolic value. “We should seek to combine the best of Larosan and Lenay cultures together! Think of it as a mutual education in each other’s lands and ways.”
They made further progress, Sofy giving Master Hern the names of several Lenays whom she thought could help with food and music. Dresses, however, she would have to think on for herself. A servant arrived to inform them of lunch, and Sofy left the hall with Elora, Yasmyn, her Royal Guards, Elora’s four sworn knights, and Elora’s handmaidens. Dear lords, Sofy thought-it was a procession. Would her entire life be like this from now on? Could she never be alone?
“Dear Sofy,” said Elora as they walked the hall, “it would be most appreciated if you could persuade your father the king to have audience with more of our lords. I hear he rarely stirs from the Sherdaine Temple since his arrival.”
“Oh you must forgive him,” Sofy sighed. “He’s been like that a while, yet lately he grows worse.” Elora waited, expecting more, but Sofy did not continue. She would not enumerate her suspicions of her father’s doubts about the war, and the alliance with Larosa. She would not let slip her own, dawning frustration of a man who should have been leading his people in this trial, yet instead wallowed in self-indulgent prayer and moral uncertainty. Did he think he was the only one who doubted, or required reassurance? All that he achieved was to give the impression of a poor and uncertain leader. Thank the gods for Koenyg. “But I will speak with him,” she added.
“He seems a vastly devout man,” said Elora airily. “Such qualities are to be admired in a king.” Sofy was not fooled. “I hear that you have a brother, too, who thinks to wear the black?”
“Wylfred,” said Sofy with a nod. “He studies with our Archbishop Dalryn, with father’s blessing.”
“And he would forfeit his chance at the throne?”
“It is said that to be second behind Koenyg is like being last of a hundred siblings. The people do rather fancy him indestructible.”
Elora laughed. “I can see from where they might gain the impression. Although one wonders if they ever thought the same of Prince Krystoff?”
“No,” Sofy sighed. “I was young, but from what I gather, no one was particularly surprised that Prince Krystoff died young.”
“Save for your father,” Elora said shrewdly.
Sofy nodded. She was becoming accustomed to this probing by Larosan royalty. Such matters of family and succession were an obsession here. In Lenayin, the royal family was mostly unchallenged…though considering it had only held power for a hundred years, that was perhaps no great achievement. But Sofy had always thought nobility a vast and self-important thing in Lenayin. Gods knew, Sasha certainly did. Sasha would hate this place, Sofy thought glumly. Barely in Sherdaine for three days, and Sofy had been astonished at the utter self-possession of so many she had met. They lived their lives in palaces and castles, and knew barely a thing of what lay outside their walls, let alone beyond the borders of their lands. Sasha had occasionally made Sofy feel guilty that she obsessed on trivial royal matters more than they deserved. Here in Sherdaine, that guilt had vanished. The other evening, she’d been cornered by a noble girl who’d talked about her family’s lineage for a full hour. If Yasmyn hadn’t rescued her, she might have expired.
Now, the likes of Princess Elora were intrigued to know that Prince Wylfred, second in the line to the throne by birth, was effectively the ruler of Lenayin in the king’s absence. The speculation, Sofy had gathered in mild shock, was that Wylfred was building a base of support in his father’s absence, and would claim the kingdom for himself whether or not his father and Koenyg survived the war. Any protestations to the contrary were met with the pitying smile of an adult to a naive child. Sofy wondered what it said of a people that they did not understand even the simplest Lenay concept of family honour. In the Bacosh, there were many wars of succession. That meant brothers against brothers, sons against fathers, and sometimes even against mothers. It boggled the mind.
The Palace of Sherdaine was in truth a castle that had been rebuilt to a palatial standard once the newest city walls had risen, and saved the castle from its need for defensive intent. The dining hall was truly grand. Tall, narrow windows opened to let in the sun, overlooking palace courtyards and the tightly packed rs of Sherdaine beyond. The hall’s high walls were a many coloured profusion of coats of arms on shields, the mounted heads of animals and city pennants that Sofy had been told were battle trophies from past wars. There was room enough upon the polished flagstones for many tables and hundreds of nobles, but today there was but one table, set for lunch and aswarm with servants.
“Ah,” said Yasmyn, sighting Jeleny waiting by a wall with an attending man, “your assistant has arrived.” She spoke Lenay, and Elora frowned at her.
“Oh yes,” Sofy sighed in Torovan. “Dear Elora, please excuse me, I should attend to this before lunch. A new assistant.”
“Another? Whatever for?”
“I am informed that I must have a male assistant due to the necessity to liaise with the priesthood in preparation for the wedding.” Not to mention the need to liaise with certain arrogant Bacosh lords and knights who would not listen to a woman, not even one with a darak.
Elora’s eyes strayed to the man waiting with Jeleny. “He wears a sword. Have you no servants to attend to such matters?”
“The Army of Lenayin is an army of warriors,” Sofy explained.
“Real men feed and clothe themselves,” Yasmyn added unhelpfully. Her Torovan was improving, Sofy thought drily.
“Attend to it as you need,” said Elora dismissively and slid away to greet others at the table.
“Really, Yasmyn,” Sofy reproved her as they walked to Jeleny.
“This assistant looks very nice,” Yasmyn observed, having forgotten Princess Elora already. The Isfayen considered themselves nearly a separate nation, and Yasmyn was the second daughter of that nation’s king. She thought herself twice the princess that Elora would ever be, and found her utterly uninteresting. “Jeleny has chosen well.”
Sofy looked, and found that Jeleny’s man was indeed nicely proportioned in broad-shouldered Lenay leather, with midlength brown hair and several rings in one ear. He stood considering the rows of hanging shields on the wall, now turning to greet her with an insolently cheerful grin. Sofy stopped, utterly paralysed. It was Jaryd Nyvar.
“Your Highness,” said Jaryd in Lenay, and bowed with a flourish. Yasmyn frowned at Sofy’s response, and put a wary hand to her darak. “It is my great honour to serve you once more.”
Sofy remained frozen, mouth partly open in shock. Jaryd only seemed to find that more amusing. “Highness?” Yasmyn asked. “Should I kill him?”
“You can try, lovely bloodwife,” said Jaryd. “It would be a pleasure to dance with the daughter of Lord Isfayen.”
“Not a pleasure,” said Yasmyn, with a dangerous smile. “An honour.”
“Aye, that also. Say, that is a lovely darak. Can you use it?”
“If the men it has killed could tell you, they would sing a grand chorus.”
“Damon,” Sofy breathed as it occurred to her. She stared accusingly at Jeleny. “Was it Damon’s idea?” Damon being rather more in charge of the less martial aspects of the army. Aspects like food, shelter, politics…and weddings. Koenyg was too busy planning a war. Jeleny nodded mutely. “Oh what a fool!” Sofy exclaimed beneath her breath. She knew Damon occasionally petulant in his tempers, but the sheer stupidity of this took her breath away. “I shall have a word with Damon. Take him away.”
“Take…” Jaryd looked to Sofy and back to Jeleny, confused. “Take me away?” Jeleny gestured for him to walk. Jaryd looked back at Sofy, temper rising. “Take me away?”
“Her Prin-cess,” Yasmyn said slowly, in the manner of one speaking to the exceptionally stupid. “You com-mon man. Go away.”
Jaryd stared daggers at her. And as Sofy turned to go, “Sofy…Sofy! You can’t refuse your brother, he outranks you!”
“Can’t?” Sofy rounded on him. “Can’t? Jaryd, seriously, I cannot quite decide who is the bigger idiot, you or him. This is impossible, I must have another assistant. Anyone but you.”
“Anyone?” Yasmyn interjected, with dawning fascination. “You are Jaryd Nyvar!”
“Ve-ry cle-ver,” Jaryd pronounced to her. “What a smart little girl.”
Yasmyn grinned. “Oh Highness, this is a perfect thing. You must allow him to stay.”
“Perfect?” Sofy asked. Today she was surrounded by morons. “What in the name of all the…?”
“But so romantic!” Yasmyn insisted. “The man who lusts for you but cannot have you, he comes to protect you! Oh this is like the ballad of Hershyl the Bride….”
Sofy glared at her, with a glance back toward the table. There was only a servant or two within earshot, and both Jaryd and Yasmyn spoke Lenay with broad Tyree and Isfayen accents respectively, but it was not impossible that a servant might be fluent enough in Lenay to catch a condemning word or two.
“What’s wrong with you two?” Sofy said harshly, her voice low. “Jaryd, I’m getting married!”
“And Prince Damon fears for your safety,” Jaryd retorted. “He wishes you to have an assistant who is not of the lordly classes yet understands them, and mistrusts them, and can speak for both Goeren-yai and Verenthane custom in the wedding. Someone who cannot be intimidated, who knows your stubbornness and flightiness, and will not take any of your girly bossiness.” Sofy bit her lip, fuming. “And, someone who would die in an instant to protect you.”
“Oh very good!” Yasmyn exclaimed in admiration. “Your Highness, Prince Damon has chosen very well.”
At the lunch table, people were looking her way. Sofy unclenched her fists, and took a deep breath. “Fine. Just…no more talking about it. Not even in Lenay, not even in Kytan or Telochi.” (Those being the native tongues of Tyree and Isfayen.) “You never know who might understand.”
“No more gossiping with, say, one’s handaidens, for instance?” Jaryd inquired, glancing at Yasmyn. Sofy rolled her eyes.
“She tells me everything,” Yasmyn said with a smile. Her eyes trailed down Jaryd’s body, to rest at his groin.
“I hope she told it well,” Jaryd replied.
“Oh rest it, you two!” Sofy fumed. “Now if you’ll just…” But Jaryd’s eyes registered someone approaching, and Sofy turned to find that a man in rich, princely clothes was walking from the table. She regained her composure, forcing a pleased smile to her lips. The man was tall and dark, square jawed and wavy haired. His tunic was black silk with silver thread, white lace frilled at the cuffs, tight pants, tall boots and a silver pommelled sword swinging low on one hip. As he came near, Sofy gave a curtsey, and Jaryd a bow. Even Yasmyn curtseyed.
“My sweet,” the Prince Balthaar Arosh greeted her with a smile, in Torovan. “Is there some issue?”
“Oh, my Prince,” Sofy laughed, a hand to her chest, “you must forgive me. My brother has gone and done something stupid again, we Lenays are forever becoming animated in our little family quarrels. It is nothing, a personal item he has managed to misplace, my assistant tells me so.”
“Ah,” said Prince Balthaar, with a glance at Jaryd. “Please tell me, what nature of item? My lovely princess shall be showered with wedding gifts in just a few days time. If there is any item in particular that she would like to request, I shall see that she has hundreds of them.”
“Oh no, my Prince, it is but a small personal item, a gift from my mother. Emotional value, nothing more.” She had once been a poor liar. Lies had brought her guilt. Recently the guilt had gone, and she suspected her lying had improved accordingly.
Jeleny took Jaryd away, to Sofy’s relief, as Balthaar escorted her to the table. At the table’s end was a grand chair, like a wooden throne. Beside it, inviting her to sit, was the Regent Tamar Arosh, lord of all the free Bacosh. He was a tall man, with wisping hair at the front, but long and grey streaked at the back. His eyes were intelligent, yet his hands and manner seemed to Sofy somehow…soft. Not a martial man, was the word amongst the Lenay lords. Not a warrior. And she wondered at the changes in herself that while a year ago she might have considered such a thing a sign of sophistication in a king, today she felt an unmistakable…distaste.
She sat upon the regent’s right hand, opposite her betrothed, with Yasmyn to her own right. Further down the table, others settled. Balthaar’s sister Elora, and his younger brother Dafed. Aramande, the Lord of Algrasse, perhaps Larosa’s closest ally. And Father Turen, the Archbishop of Sherdaine, and the holiest man in Larosa. The small table and isolated setting, here in the regent’s private quarters, made Sofy nervous. The lady regent was absent, as were Balthaar’s other sisters, and most of the grand provincial lords save Lord Aramande. In these great days of alliance building, a missed chance to dine with new allies and former enemies was an opportunity lost. Yet the regent chose to lunch with this select group.
“An issue with the new assistant, Princess Sofy?” asked the regent. He spoke with a curious detachment, and when he met a person’s eyes, it was only fleeting. He was a man of elegance and refinement, who sometimes seemed tofind the company of people…uninteresting. Sofy thought him one of the most puzzling men she’d met.
“No issue, Your Grace.” It was the required form of address, she’d been informed, to the man who would be known as king if not for the ancient declaration of Elrude’s Oath that no Bacosh man could name himself king until all the Bacosh had been reclaimed, and the throne of Leyvaan restored. “Rather an issue with my brother.”
“Which one?” asked the regent, considering the soup that servants laid before them.
“Prince Damon. He is my dear friend, but sometimes forgetful.”
“And unmarried,” added Elora.
“Does the prospect interest you, sister?” Balthaar asked, teasingly.
“One merely observes,” said Elora. They spoke Torovan, for Sofy’s benefit. Her Larosan was approaching conversational standard, but not quite there yet. “Whom shall he marry, do you think, Sofy?”
“Oh dear,” said Sofy. “With Damon, one is never certain. He is rather picky.”
“I hear of considerable interest in Tournea,” said Lord Aramande of Algrasse. He was a very handsome man, of no more than thirty summers, but short. Standing, Sofy reckoned he might not be too much taller than her. “Lady Sicilia is known to be asking questions on the prince’s inclinations. He does prefer girls, does he not, Princess Sofy?”
Sofy did not resent the question, but rather the way it was asked. “Of the Lenay variety, assuredly,” she said coolly. Balthaar chuckled. Sofy smiled at him. Lord Aramande made an unconvincing smile and blew on a spoonful of soup.
“What precisely is wrong with ladies of the Bacosh?” the Archbishop wanted to know.
“They wear wigs,” Yasmyn replied. “Hair falls out. All bald beneath, like priest.” The Archbishop whitened.
Balthaar laughed. “Lady Yasmyn, I swear, do all noble ladies of Isfayen have such sharp tongues as you?”
Yasmyn smiled. “And sharper knives.”
“A pity there are not more of you on this ride. I should like to wed one of you to Dafed.”
Elora giggled.
“Be nice,” said Dafed. Balthaar’s younger brother was broad, built like a young bull. Sofy thought he was the strongest warrior she’d met, amongst Bacosh nobility.
“No doubt an Isfayen marriage to the second son of the regent would alarm King Torvaal,” said Lord Aramande. “The Isfayen being such a warlike people, he might consider it a play for power.” Sofy thought the man determined to cause trouble. Many, she knew, did not like this marriage at all.
“No,” said Yasmyn. “The gods chose Family Lenayin. There is honour to follow the king. The Isfayen are honourable.”
“I have no doubt,” Balthaar said easily. “Honourable and beautiful.” Yasmyn smiled. “Yet not quite as beautiful as some,” he added, with a smileat Sofy.
Sofy sighed. When she had first learned that she would be married to the son of the Larosan regent, she had been revolted. Then, when the consequences of resisting her father and Koenyg’s plans had become clear, she had gritted her teeth, and resolved that if a man’s service to his kingdom could involve dying on the battlefield, then a woman’s fate of marriage and childbirth would not be such a bad thing, even were the man unlovable.
Balthaar Arosh was intelligent and gracious. He had a sense of humour, and a natural ease of command. Sofy knew that most women would think her irretrievably spoiled could she not be grateful for such a gift as this marriage had granted her.
After lunch, she took a brief walk with her future husband in the courtly gardens. Trimmed hedges made fascinating shapes, and about it all, the narrow windows of Sherdaine Palace looked down. Other couples strolled the maze, some knights in chain and surcoats. Many of the ladies wore long, silver wigs with curls and ornaments that glittered.
Yasmyn walked behind, with a black-clad woman of the Merciful Sisters, who had appeared from nowhere to keep an eye on the couple. No more than hand holding would be tolerated, Sofy had been told.
“I have invited your brothers to participate in the wedding tournament,” Balthaar told her. “It has been too soon for a reply, however.”
“Oh, Balthaar, jousting.” Sofy made a face. “It does seem unnecessarily dangerous, with a war coming.”
“Tournament lances, my dear,” Balthaar assured her. “They are narrow things, and break easily upon contact with a shield or armour. Do you think they shall accept the invitation?”
“Oh, I’m certain you could not keep Koenyg away if you tried,” Sofy said tiredly. “Myklas too. Lenay warriors have little use for lances or knightly armour, but I’m sure they’ll prove fast learners.”
“Not your brother Damon?” Balthaar asked. “I should warn you that there are rumours regarding Damon. They say that he is not a real Lenay man like your brother Koenyg.”
“He was man enough for Lord Elen of Liside Vale.”
Balthaar looked down at her with a little concern, and squeezed her hand. “I did not mean to cause offence.”
“No, of course not. I’m sorry. I just…I recall what Lord Elen did, and it angers me. I never thought I could be proud of my brothers for killing a man in a duel, but I’m very proud of Damon for that.”
“Dear Sofy,” said Balthaar, and stopped. He turned her toward him, and took her other hand in his. “You have not yet inferred upon me a term of endearment. I am merely Balthaar.”
“There shall be plenty of time for that once we are married, don’t you think?”
Balthaar looked a little sad. “Of course. I merely hope that I shall not be plain and simple Balthaar forever.”
“Dear Prince, I doubt that you have ever been ‘plain and simple’ anything.” Balthaar smiled and kissed her hand. Sofy was relieved. Behind them, the Merciful Sister cleard her throat, loudly.
“Balthaar?” Sofy asked suddenly. “What would you have done with Lord Elen?”
Balthaar frowned. “It is not a prince’s role to interfere with matters of law and punishment in a lord’s own domain. Particularly not where those matters of law concern the faith. Lord Elen broke Lenay law within a Lenay camp, and I respect that your laws must be enforced. Prince Damon did what he must, and I hope that our fellow lords shall learn better from the lesson. But that is a separate matter from the first.”
“And the killing of village folk accused of witchcraft?”
Balthaar shrugged, in that airy manner that reminded Sofy of his aloof, intellectual father. “The common folk believe and indulge in all manner of folly. Should princes or kings attempt to put an end to all of it, the kingdom should see war from one end to the other.” Sofy thought that a somewhat hopeful answer.
“On the other hand,” he continued, “to the extent that such silly superstitions keep our lands free from serrin, it is perhaps a worthwhile price to pay. Those evil filth should be killed wherever they are found, and I look forward to the day that we can rid Rhodia of the last of them. Perhaps in our glorious reign together, as king and queen.” He smiled at her. “But come, let us continue, before the dragon lady at our backs orders us both beheaded for premarital indecency.”