Sasha

bitch earlier,' Lord Paramys muttered. 'If she joins with Lord Krayliss, then there'll be trouble. Did you hear him call her the Synnich? What the hells is a Synnich, anyhow?'

Jaryd listened to them argue, but his thoughts were wandering. He thought of the girl, with her short hair, lively eyes and, it could not be denied, firm buttocks. As pretty as her sisters, when one learned to disregard the unwomanly presentation. And crazy as a fevered mule. But then, who amongst these men present, who called her names and wished for her downfall, could match her with a sword or on a horse?

Jaryd Nyvar did not know much about a lot of things, but he knew honour. His father thought him a simpleton, and had often wondered aloud what he'd done to so displease the gods that they would give him a dunce for an heir. Jaryd had never excelled in studies. Written words still troubled him, and numbers moreso. An heir to the Great Lordship of Tyree would need such skills, he was often told. He was clever with a sword, a genius on a horse, and had surprised even himself with his gifts as an artist. The latter skill he'd been too embarrassed to practise, lest the other noble boys laugh at such girlish pursuits… but his tutors had noticed. He was obviously intelligent, they said. He was just lazy. He was not applying himself hard enough. His head was so full of horses, swordwork and pretty girls that he had lost all sense of priorities.

He'd become so tired of hearing those accusations that he'd decided he might as well make them true. At least that way he'd have a little fun.

He'd discovered soon enough that the commonfolk didn't care whether he could recite Torovan poets or make sense of the taxman's books. To them, he was a hero, something he'd enjoyed vastly more than being a dunce. Noble boys were more wary, aware of his father's concerns, which were therefore also their fathers' concerns. Some of them had teased him about his lack of scholarly skill, for which Jaryd had mercilessly tormented them in the practice yard or on the lagand field. They hadn't liked that, but Jaryd hadn't cared. He was heir to the Great Lordship of Tyree and could best them at all the things that should truly matter of a young Lenay man. What were they going to do about it?

'My brother is dead,' said Lord Tymeth, which stopped all conversation immediately. 'I wish to know how it happened.'

Jaryd turned to face him. Pelyn were a powerful family with a large holding in western Tyree and access to lands that could become a large source of revenue should the lords get their wish and force the king to allow them to tax such lands.

Oddly, Jaryd found himself recalling the girl's scolding about lands and taxes. And of the death of Lord Aynsfar of Neysh, in the south, after he had tried to impose such taxation without the king's leave. Were they all fools to be standing here in Baen-Tar, with not a Goeren-yai in sight save the serving maids, and pretend that they had nothing to fear from the followers of the ancient ways?

The cold accusation in Lord Tymeth's eyes added to Jaryd's discomfort. This was all wrong. He'd thought the girl a fraud, but in truth, she was a for midable warrior. He'd thought his father's goals just and fair, yet he'd seen now how fiercely the Goeren-yai loved their freedom and he doubted they'd just lie back and accept a new set of local, tax-raising rulers any more than they'd tolerated Lord Aynsfar. He'd always thought his noble peers basically honourable, with a few notable exceptions… but he'd seen Lieutenant Reynan Pelyn attempting to put a blade in the girl's back, when honour should have compelled him to rush to her defence, whatever their differences.

Lord Tymeth stared, yet Jaryd could not feel any shame at what he'd done. He was not a brilliant man, perhaps, but he was honourable. Honourable behaviour, with the stanch, blade and lagand hook, had brought him the only true happiness he'd ever known. His honour was something right and something pure, and something his, that no teasing from his peers or contempt from his elders could ever destroy.

'I killed your brother, Lord Tymeth,' he said, with as much firm disdain as he could muster. 'Sashandra Lenayin won a duel against Farys Varan of Hadryn, one of the north's best swordsmen. The Hadryn proved dishonourable and attacked her following a fair victory. I moved to defend the victor, with the rest of the Falcon Guard, and in the ensuing confusion, I saw Lieutenant Reynan attempt to shove his blade into Sashandra Lenayin's spine, with clear intent. Thankfully, I was there to save Tyree from this blight on its honour.'

There was no sound in the palace guest chambers but the crackling of the fire. They had already heard, Jaryd saw.

Some men stared in open hostility. Others looked at each other, as if wondering what now might happen. Lord Redyk wore a dark frown. Lord Arastyn, a serious contemplation. Great Lord Aystin Nyvar wore no discernible expression at all. He had barely reacted. He just sat in his chair, looking pale and ill.

Jaryd felt a great surge of frustration that, once again, he should be blamed for something that was most certainly not his fault. 'Which one of you ordered it?' he demanded, scanning the lords of Tyree with his eyes. 'Which one of you ordered something so dishonourable? I can understand a man deciding that Tyree would be better off with Sashandra Lenayin dead, but to do so by such a method? I should kill the man who ordered the deed for he deserves death far more than even Lieutenant Reynan.'

His father cleared his throat. 'That would be me,' he said. Jaryd stared, his breath caught in his throat. His father looked up and met his gaze properly for the first time. A dry, humourless smile tugged at thin, pale lips. 'It's no surprise I should deserve death. The gods give all men what they deserve.'

'Boy always did have more wind than wits,' Lord Paramys muttered. No one leapt to Jaryd's defence.

'Why?' Jaryd asked, in bafflement.

'Tyree would be better off with her dead,' his father rasped, 'you said it yourself. A man might decide that. A man did. Many men. Any one who might unite the Goeren-yai is a threat. The moment for Lenayin's nobility has come. We can afford no division and no obstacles. Krayliss is one obstacle. Kessligh Cronenverdt is less so, for he was always more Nasi-Keth than Goeren-yai, but his bitch is not. A royal Goeren-yai was always the dream of many. Best that it does not happen.'

'You never told me!' Jaryd bristled. 'You never trusted me with your plans! Why?'

'Why?' His father snorted a laugh, as equally humourless as the smile. 'Look at you. You think this piteous whining surprises me? I did not tell you because I know my son. I know my son better than I wish to.'

'My honour displeases you?'

'Honour is the last refuge of a fool!' his father snarled. 'Honour is the excuse for traitors to betray and for cowards to take heel! This is honour!' He jabbed one bony forefinger at the men surrounding. 'Your family! Your class! Your faith! These things make you honourable, no more! If you do not understand that, then your honour is no more than ashes in your mouth, and blood on your hands.'

'I will challenge, my Lord,' Lord Tymeth said coldly. 'I have no wish to, but my brother has been slain. Family honour, my Lord.'

'Indeed,' said Great Lord Aystin Nyvar, coldly. 'But a challenge can be averted. I have had word from our friend the Great Lord Kumaryn of Valhanan. He has heard Sashandra Lenayin is responsible for this death, not my son. I see no need to disabuse him of the notion.'

'It makes no difference,' Lord Tymeth replied. 'I know the truth, and the truth cannot be…'

'It makes all the difference!' Lord Aystin snapped. 'Have you heard nothing that has been said? We must present a united front to the king! Honour is to be found in advancing our cause, not squabbling amongst ourselves like…'

'I shall not allow my brother's murderer to escape justice!' Lord Tymeth retorted, his jowls reddening with rage.

'If it's justice you want, Tymeth,' Lord Arastyn said calmly, 'then you'd best keep your mouth shut. Master Jaryd was within the king's justice, your brother was not.'

Lord Tymeth stared at him, too furious to speak.

'Who's going to challenge me?' Jaryd said angrily. 'You, Lord Tymeth? You're almost too fat to walk, let alone fight. What would you do, sit on me?'

'I challenge on behalf of my nephew Pyter!' Tymeth yelled. 'He's equal a swordsman to you and only too eager to see your head on a pike, I assure you, Master Jaryd!'

'Enough!' Great Lord Aystin yelled, struggling from his seat. 'Enough with this…' and he broke into a fit of coughing. Men came to his sides, holding his arms to keep him from falling. Jaryd watched as coughs racked his father's frail body. He did not feel much emotion beside anger. The coughing passed, leaving Great Lord Aystin limp in his chair like an empty shell. 'There shall be no challenge,' he rasped, weakly. 'Sashandra Lenayin shall bear this accusation. My son shall vouch for the truth of it.'

He looked up, his sunken eyes watery and pale.