metal forearm guards, gazing across the field at the game in progress. 'Fyden plays Taneryn,' he observed, recognising the colours. 'What score?' There was a scoring platform up on the scaffold, but he could not see it from this angle.
'Taneryn by eight to four, I believe. It's a long match.' Disparagingly. 'Perhaps they should play hourglass rules or else we'll be here till lunchtime.' Under royal rules the game did not stop until one team scored ten goals.
Jaryd seemed grimmer this morning. He tightened his forearm strap now, his helm under one arm. Not quite as tall as Damon in his riding boots, but more broadly and powerfully built. Sofy had told Damon of some of the rumours circulating, that Jaryd was on the outs with his father, and there had been threats and insults traded. Jaryd Nyvar's once shiny reputation had been tarnished. Apparently, when questioned on the death of Lieutenant Reynan, he'd not been saying what some others had been wanting to hear. Damon looked across at one man in particular- Pyter Pelyn, amidst a cluster of young noble friends. Pyter had been Lieutenant Reynan Pelyn's cousin. The last four days of contest, he and Jaryd had barely spoken a word to each other.
Damon completed a count of the assembled riders, as groups of giggling noble girls gathered nearby, pointing and whispering. 'We're a rider short,' he realised.
'Danyth's shoulder came up sore from yesterday's fall,' said Jaryd. He swiped with his hook, a shiny, curved length of wood as long as his forearm, with a wide blade like a shovel, and a long, sharp edge at the end. No question about it, Damon thought Jaryd was angry this morning. He wondered what had happened. 'I found a replacement.'
'No shortage of those,' said Damon. To represent one's province in a great Rathynal tournament was an honour indeed. Although, it was the tradition in such tournaments that the princes of Baen-Tar would not take one side, but rather would spread their number across the various teams of cenayin. To be royalty was to take no side. Damon was pleased to know that he, at least, had qualified on merit-he did not feel any awe of the Tyree men he rode with, except perhaps Jaryd. 'Who'd you get?'
'Over there,' said Jaryd, pointing toward the cluster of replacement horses, chewing and drinking from temporary mangers and water troughs. Damon looked, and saw two people astride the same horse. The first was Sofy, laughing with delight as the rider behind guided her hands on the reins and indicated when to apply the heels with a tap on the leg. Most unbecoming of a Verenthane princess, Sofy's dress was pulled up nearly to her knees and folks in the surrounding crowd were staring. Surely that could not be a man behind? Archbishop Dalryn would have his head…
The horse turned and Damon saw short dark hair, a lithe figure in pants and jacket, with a blade strapped diagonally to her back. He gave Jaryd a disbelieving look. Jaryd snorted and tightened his glove.
Sasha had arrived yesterday afternoon, accompanied by two male friends from Baerlyn, itself something of a minor scandal. Koenyg was unhappy that one was Teriyan, who Damon recalled from his stay in Baerlyn as a smartmouth. The other was a gangly lad who had worked the ranch with Sasha for years.
Kessligh was not with her, and that too had sent the rumour-mongers scurrying like rats in a granary. Sasha said he'd gone to Petrodor, but rumours suggested he was either dead, in hiding, riding north to do battle with the Hadryn single-handedly, or that he and Sasha had had a lover's tiff and he'd abandoned her. Some suggested she was with child and he'd left for Petrodor because his task was done. And other rumours as well, too stupid to mention.
Damon had found last night's family dinner a chore. Alythia had sent icy barbs Sasha's way and Sasha had replied with hot ones. Koenyg had asked suspicious questions of Kessligh and this Teriyan Tremel. Father had said little-a dark, sombre sentinel at the end of the table-while Wylfred had attempted to explain to Sasha why it was not proper for a young Verenthane lady to travel alone with two male companions. Only Myklas had seemed to enjoy it, the way any sixteen-year-old boy might enjoy watching dogs fight, or a carriage load of history scholars falling off a cliff.
If a strong family was the core foundation of virtue, as the Verenthanes insisted, then Damon reckoned his family's house might have all the godly virtue of a Petrodor brothel.
'I realise this is a stupid question,' Damon remarked, turning to Jaryd, 'but is that wise?'
Jaryd shrugged. 'As the only Nasi-Keth present, she is officially the Nasi-Keth's representative in this Rathynal. Form dictates one person from each represented party should be invited to participate in the tournament.'
'And that answers my question how?'
Jaryd scowled. 'I had a bad opinion of her myself, once. Then I saw her swordwork with my own eyes and I came to know her at least a little, person to person. She forced me to reconsider. The audience here today is a little larger, but she deserves the chance to do the same.'
Sasha had torn strips off many a young man's pride in junior lagand tournaments across the years, in Damon's memory, and people had not loved her any more for it. But the look in Jaryd's eyes suggested he was not to be argued with. As team captain, he could pick whomever he wished.
A rising gasp came from the crowd, then a roar as the Taneryn scored. Damon wondered if Lord Krayliss himself was playing. Sasha and Sofy's horse came trotting over and Sasha leaped off, then helped Sofy from the saddle.
'You'd best prepare, M'Lady,' Jaryd told Sasha, pointing to her bundled gear. 'One more score and we're on.'
'Do you always tuck your pants into your socks?' Sofy asked the young champion, with mild curiosity.
Jaryd looked down, confusedly. 'The… I mean, a man's pants can become entangled in the stirrups, Your Highness. Or worse, in your opponent's stirrups, or their spurs if they wear them.' He managed a mischievous smile. 'A man's pants have been known to come clean off, in such an encounter.'
'I should not want to see that!' Sofy remarked, in a tone that suggested much the opposite. 'Sasha, why did you not inform me as to this most unexpected aspect of lagand before?'
'Because it's such a boring, bloodthirsty activity,' Sasha replied, fastening armguards over her shirt sleeves. 'You said so yourself.'
'Well, perhaps one could learn to appreciate it better,' Sofy said mildly, with a mischievous glance at Jaryd. 'If one were educated properly.'
'It's just a bunch of sweaty men on horses whacking each other with sticks,' Damon said dryly. Sofy had never liked lagand. Her tastes were more refined. 'Why are you boring yourself with us savages, don't you have a poetry recital to attend? A Larosan ode to how we are all but smelly undergarments dangling from the tree of life?'
Sofy scowled at him. 'Sarcasm is the surest sign of savagery, dear brother,' she said disdainfully. 'I wish to see my sister ride, is that so uncommon?'
A tangled melee of horse came thundering by, punctuated by the yells and grunting exertion of men. Past the waiting riders, Damon caught a glimpse of wild-haired Goeren-yai men of Taneryn astride their little dussieh, their lagand hooks flailing.
'Here,' said Sasha, handing Sofy her sword in its scabbard. 'There's no swords allowed on the field. Don't hand it to a guard to mind, I'd rather you kept it yourself. In hand.'
'Is it valuable?' Sofy asked dubiously, taking the scabbard with careful hands.
'It's Saalshen-forged and at least five hundred years old,' Sasha told her. 'Probably it could buy every horse on the field today.'
Sofy pulled the blade a short way from its sheath. 'Five hundred years? It looks so new!'
'Careful! Don't play with it. And for spirits' sake don't try the edge, you'll lose a finger.'
'Okay, okay!' Sofy slapped the hilt back into the scabbard. 'I'll be watching from the box. I made Myklas promise he'd sit with me for a while… he's playing later today for Baen-Tar against Isfayen, his friend Master Serys invited him.'
'He's been playing for Baen-Tar province with Serys for the past four days,' Damon told her.
'Well, I didn't know, okay?' Sofy pouted. 'I've had other things to do. Anyhow, Myklas said he'd explain the rules to me.'
'Rules, Your Highness?' Jaryd asked with a mischievous glint.
'Oh, Master Jaryd!' Sofy scolded. 'Noblemen are such savages!'
'And noblewomen find it so distressing,' said Jaryd, with a glance toward the clustered, whispering girls
