serrin response had been devastating, crushing Leyvaan and his armies, and taking the three nearest Bacosh provinces for themselves. That had been two centuries ago, and today, the so-called 'Saalshen Bacosh' remained in serrin hands. Many in the priesthood called those lands holy, and wanted them back, out of the clutches of godless, pagan serrin.
'Such talk has existed since Leyvaan the Fool created the whole mess in the first place,' Sasha retorted. 'The Saalshen Bacosh is a happy place. The only unhappy people are those outsiders who resent that fact. Besides, there is no Verenthane brotherhood. It's a myth.'
'Even so,' Damon said tiredly. 'People talk, is all. Perhaps it will fade, I hope so. We have enough troubles in Lenayin without lowlands concerns thrust upon us also.'
'Hear hear,' Sasha murmured. But Kessligh's words remained with her: 'War is in the air. Us old warhorses can smell it.'
'You're not going to ask after Father's wellbeing also?' Damon queried into that silence.
'No,' said Sasha. And tucked her warm, heavy blankets more firmly down about her neck. 'Father has advisors enough to see to that already.'
Three
Jaryd Nyvar rode at the head of the Falcon Guards as the road wound uphill from Baerlyn, with Prince Damon at his left stirrup. The morning dawned bright and clear across rugged hillsides of thick forest and sparkling des. Cold air nipped at his cheeks, and the steaming breath of horse and men ningled about the column, so that it moved along the road like some great, puffing beast. The land in these parts was as beautiful as Jaryd'snative Tyree. Birds sang in the trees, and on the way out of town, a pair of handsome deer had startled across the road.
At the distance of perhaps one fold from Baerlyn, they encountered a pair of riders waiting for them on the road beside a narrow trail through the trees. Kessligh Cronenverdt and his brat uman. That trail, then, would lead to their horse ranch in the wilds. Prince Damon acknowledged them with a wave, which both returned. They fell into line several places further back, in plain cloaks to ward the morning chill, their back-worn swords invisible beneath those folds. An unremarkable and plain-looking pair, they seemed, amidst a column of Tyree green-and-gold, gleaming silver helms and polished boots. Unremarkable, that was, but for their horses-both stallions, one light bay, the girl's a charcoal black, and both beautiful to behold.
It was a reminder of Cronenverdt's past service, of the debt owed to him by the king. Jaryd had heard the mutterings of his father's men, that Cronenverdt was little more than a hired sword who had commanded from the king a steep ransom for his services. Jaryd thought it somewhat rich for wealthy nobles to accuse Kessligh of being a mercenary considering the plainness of the man living out here in the wilds with his uma. Cronenverdt could have commanded a far larger sum and lived in a grand holding, with lands and gardens and prospective wives clamouring for his hand. Instead, when Prince Krystoff had met an unfortunate end, he'd left the king's service and asked for nothing more than a grief-stricken, impossible brat of a princess to replace the uma he'd lost, and some horses.
Jaryd thought it far more likely that his fellow nobility were jealous of the man, partly for his accomplishments, and partly for the way in which he showed up their expensive tastes. It was surely not unreasonable that a man who had freely given his services, instead of being born into the obligation of service, should receive some gift in return? How to criticise such a man, who did not play by the rules that others understood? No wonder he made so many enemies amongst the ruling classes.
After a while riding along the forested hillside, Prince Damon fell back in the column to talk with Kessligh. Lieutenant Reynan took his place at Jaryd's side.
'The brat was up before dawn,' said the lieutenant, rubbing sleepy eyes beneath his helm. 'I'd thought to follow her, but that horse of hers is fast and doesn't mind a night-time torch. Mine gets all flighty near a flame.'
Jaryd frowned at him. Lieutenant Reynan Pelyn was the brother of Lord Tymeth Pelyn, head of one of the twenty-three noble families of Tyree, and close allies of Family Nyvar. He was a big man, with a round head, small eyes, and a barely discernible chin. He had not served with the Falcon Guards for long-barely a year, in fact, just a short time longer than Jaryd had been in command. Jaryd did not think that the men were particularly fond of him.
'You'd follow her to her home?' Jaryd asked. He kept his voice low, and there was little chance of anyone overhearing above the stamp of hooves and jangling harnesses.
Reynan shrugged. 'Lord Tymeth told me to keep a close watch on her at all times. I'm keeping a close watch.'
'So much effort for one girl,' Jaryd mused. 'One might think your brother actually believes the tales the Goeren-yai tell about her swordwork.'
'It's not her sword that's the bother,' Reynan said darkly. 'That little bitch causes enough trouble with the Goeren-yai as is, and the king's gone too teary-eyed since Prince Krystoff's death to do anything about it.'
'Do about it?' said Jaryd. 'Lieutenant, who said anything about doing something about it?'
'My Lord brother said to keep a close eye on her,' Reynan said stubbornly, 'and that's what I'll do. Make sure she doesn't cause any trouble.'
'She's just a girl,' Jaryd said shortly. 'How much trouble can she cause?' And why, he thought, be so much more worried about her than about Cronenverdt? Cronenverdt held the real power, surely. The brat was just a distraction. A distraction for Cronenverdt himself, some said, in a meaningful way. A plaything for a man who'd developed strange tastes in sword-wielding women while amongst the serrin and Nasi-Keth of Petrodor. Some claimed he wished to sire a son from her, who might then claim the throne. Surely the nobles of Tyree did not believe such nonsense? There were so many before her in the line of succession, after all…
Reynan gave his commander one of those weary, superior, adult looks that Jaryd disliked so much. 'Never you mind, Master Jaryd,' he said tiredly. 'You just concern yourself with the road ahead, and leave the other business to me. Just remember to call on me if you need any advice-you're a fine warrior, Master, but older heads have ridden this road before.'
'I have plenty of advice from Captain Tyrun,' Jaryd replied, annoyed by the older man's patronising tone. 'He's ridden these roads far more often than you.'
Reynan's face hardened. 'Master Jaryd,' he said in a low, harsh voice, that man is not noble born. He's a peasant, little better than a pagan…
'Captain Tyrun is a true Verenthane and a veteran warrior!' Jaryd retorted in rising temper. 'He rose from lowly status because he was the best, as is the tradition in the Guard! Do you question that tradition, Lieutenant Reynan?'
Reynan's jaw clenched. So that was the sore spot, and the reason why the other men disliked him. A lieutenant, after just one year. True, Jaryd was in command after a shorter period, but he was heir to all Tyree, and made no bones that Captain Tyrun remained in true command.
'No,' Reynan bit out. 'I would merely advise, Master Jaryd, that you give some serious thought to where your future interests lie, for yourself and for Tyree.'
It was midday before the column took its first rest, the men dismounting upon a broad, open shoulder of the Ryshaard River. Kessligh and Sasha found a large rock in the river shallows and spread out their food, whilst Peg and Terjellyn remained on the shore with a handler. Horses splashed in the shallows nearby, drinking deep, and men gathered to share rations.
Across the wide, wild bend of river, cliffs rose near-vertical in a broken, granite wall. Atop the cliff, trees lined the high ridge. Above those, an eagle circled. Sasha shaded her eyes against the bright sun as she ate, gazing upward.
'Oh look!' she exclaimed. 'That's a silvertip. She must have a nest up there somewhere. There must be good fishing in the river.'
'How do you know it's a she?'
'I don't. But Lenay men have this silly habit of assuming every dangerous animal is a he, when in fact the females are usually more dangerous.'
