“I am their witness,” Jaryd explained. “I bear news of their deeds to their comrades here. That is where I have been all today, telling their stories. There was a myala, and…”
Damon looked askance at Sasha. “A ritual for the dead,” Sasha explained. “To assist in the passing of their spirits to the spirit world.”
“I cannot say that I do believe this or do not believe that,” Jaryd continued, “yet I can certainly say that what I feel for the Goeren-yai is something that I never felt for my faith when I was a Verenthane. It feels real to me. It lives and breathes. Sasha knows.”
Sasha nodded. “I do.”
“And if you make me a lord…” Jaryd did not complete the sentence.
Damon smiled. “Who has said that you must become a Verenthane once more to be a lord?” Jaryd frowned. Damon sighed. “Jaryd, I'm a prince. I'm the highest royalty in this Army of Lenayin….”
“Assuming I win,” Sasha reminded him.
“As Prince Damon, I'm ruler of this Army of Lenayin. I can make whomever I choose a lord. Goeren-yai or Verenthane.”
“A Goeren-yai lord?” Jaryd wondered.
“Taneryn's full of them.”
“I'm not sure Taneryn's much of a recommendation.”
“In fact,” Damon continued, eyes brightening with possibility, “this might be just what we need, for morale. We announce a wedding. I make you a lord, which should not offend anyone since you've been one most of your life, then announce your marriage to Sofy!”
“Needs a divorce first,” Sasha said drily.
“Hmm.” Damon thought about it. “Damn. Well, killing the husband surely qualifies? Can't we announce an engagement pending that?”
“Oh, that's a great precedent!” Sasha laughed. “‘I now declare myself the fiancee to this wedded woman, now excuse me while I kill her husband.’”
Damon shrugged. “Unusual times, unusual methods.”
“And if I don't beat Markan,” Sasha repeated, “you'll not be deciding anything for anyone. Now where's this damn surprise you promised me?”
Markan's idea for a tymorain was to hold it in Jahnd's largest amphitheatre. Sasha walked in the middle of her escort through the theatre district, where tenements stood tall to house all the visiting serrin who came to see the plays, and busy lanes abounded with costumers and makeup artists. But now the crowds thronged for a different purpose, as hawkers yelled prices, and lines formed at stairways where city folk hoped to push their way inside.
A tunnel took her beneath the stands, then up steps and into the arena. There came a ritual yell from the Lenay crowd, and a clatter of swords as thousands stood as one. Sasha gazed about the open circle, her eyes avoiding the crowd. The amphitheatre made good use of Jahnd's hillside, located perhaps halfway up the slope with the audience looking down onto the circular stage. On the downslope side, the stage was open to the valley, with only a raised platform and a wall separating performers from a steep drop. The sun was setting, the sky above streaked with orange cloud. Shadow crept across the valley below, casting the western side of the amphitheatre's audience into gloom.
Lenay men stood about the circle, which was paved with smooth stone. At the circle's far side stood Markan. Sasha ignored the sacredness of the space, and the holyman who came to her to discuss proceedings, and walked to the Great Lord of Isfayen.
“You're an idiot,” she told him, looking up to his face. “You want it here?”
“Where better?” said Markan with satisfaction. “You have a new shirt. It suits you.”
The shirt was chain, made from serrin steel, and woven into a traditional Lenay battle jacket of hard leather, shoulder guards, and elbow pads. The chain itself was barely half the weight of any chain she'd experimented with then thrown off in disgust. The armourer had assured her it was no less strong for the lightness, and it felt remarkably gentle upon her arms.
Given the choice in single combat, she'd have preferred to fight unarmoured, as in the svaalverd, speed was life. Yet in the battle to come, she would be commanding from a horse in a world filled with flying projectiles, and required some protection from things the svaalverd could not save her from. And now, this warm and glowing evening, she was about to enter a bashing contest with a man who looked like he could bend steel barehanded.
“I do not wish to harm the Synnich-ahn before a great battle,” said Markan. “It would be simpler if you would comply to be queen.”
“Simple does not interest me,” said Sasha. “Only right.”
“Very well,” said Markan. “Will you fight eldyn rules?”
Sasha scowled. “Why not just tie one arm behind my back?” Eldyn rules did not allow head strikes.
“As I said, I do not wish for you to be harmed.”
“And I do not wish to be the loser before the contest even begins. If you take from me the chance of a headstrike, you take my best chance of victory. Pryal rules.”
Markan inclined his head. The stupidity of it was now making Sasha angry. She had a war to fight, and her foolish people were so obsessed with their protocols that they'd see two of their most important leaders beaten black-and-blue instead of preparing for victory. And if a headstrike came too hard, it could be far worse than that.
She turned her back on Markan and strode to a central spot from which to face the crowd. A holyman blocked her way.
“There are procedures,” he said with a scowl. Sasha stepped around him. He caught her arm. Sasha hit him with a studded glove to the head. He stumbled, and the crowd gasped.
The loudness of the gasp surprised her. She had not truly looked up yet at the crowd, not wishing the distraction. Now she did, and saw thousands. And more thousands, as she turned her head across the semicircular stands. More than half were Lenay, dangerous-looking men in full battle dress. A good portion of the Army of Lenayin were here this evening. Many of the rest were Ilduuri, watching their new general with concern and intrigue. Remaining places, up in the far reaches, were crowded with Jahndis, townsfolk just recently learned of these events, and desperate to see what craziness these foreigners brought to their city.
The holyman might have come back at her, a big man with a heavy beard no more than stunned by her blow. Sasha drew her sword as she faced the crowd, and with that view of her back, he thought again. The craftsmen of Jahnd, with astonishing artistry, had decorated the dark leather on her back with a pair of evil, blood-red eyes. They stared now upon the holyman, and he did not approach. They were the eyes of the Synnich, a lowlanders' imagining of a Lenay spirit previously unknown, yet no Lenay could see those eyes upon her back and deny to whom and to what they belonged.
“Welcome to the show!” she snarled at the crowd. “A parade of fools for Lenayin, the most foolish of all nations!” There was an uneasy shifting. Ilduuris looked concerned, and wondered what she said. “I am Synnich-ahn, and I do not care for your protocols! You seek to make me queen because power must be held by the most powerful? I seek true power now! I seek the power of law, law over you! When I win here today, I will tell you your laws, and all this stupidity will cease!”
“Not even kings can write the laws of Lenayin!” someone yelled. “Kings obey the law, if they want to live!”
“Then come and kill me, you fucking moron coward!” Sasha yelled. “You choose me as a ruler, well, this is it! I don't play your game! My great-grandfather Soros Lenayin brought Lenayin freedom and law and a king! I will bring Lenayin a future!”
She turned and strode back past the dazed and wary holyman, and handed her sword to Yasmyn. She guessed that all her friends would be in the audience, but it did not even occur to her to look for them. She had only felt like this once before in her memory, before the one and only duel of her life, before the walls of Halleryn in Taneryn. She had killed a Hadryn lord that day, and challenged all that the Hadryn peoples had believed, about who she was, and the infallibility of their own gods. Today she challenged all her people, friend and foe alike. Lenayin was divided, all structure was broken, and anything was possible. There were no rules any longer. She would make some.