Jaryd and Asym sat together on the steps of the fountain in the village courtyard. Evening shadows fell upon the pavings and a cool breeze had begun to blow, relief from the heat of the day. They ate fruit from the orchards, and some bread passed around from the bakery. There were crowds about the courtyard, people clustered before the small temple, ordinary folk frightened and tired, some with children. A few were making the rounds, tearfully, asking for this or that missing person, lost when the Elissians had attacked on the road. Past the fountain, the two Larosan knights had laid out their armour and were resting, exhausted. Unarmoured, they looked like normal men.
Many of those running from Tracato had a part-serrin look to them. Others simply feared no one was safe. All were headed for Saalshen, in hope of sanctuary. Saalshen had no fortresses to stop people from Rhodaan, only the Ipshaal River. How they would cross it, Jaryd did not know. Saalshen traded in large volume with Rhodaan; surely there were boats. But if those boats fell into Elissian hands, there would be little to stop the pursuit. Most serrin did not fight. If only Saalshen were more like Lenayin, with every man a warrior, things would be different.
Asym poured some water over the wound on his shoulder. It was not deep, though the surrounding skin was discoloured. He then poured a little more on Jaryd's back, where a blow had done similar damage across a shoulder blade. Asym's upper arms and chest were tattooed with intricate curls and patterns in black ink, from which emerged the fanged and snarling faces of animals real and mythical.
“I hope Jandlys is well,” Jaryd said absently.
Asym made a face. “If he is in Tracato, then no. Jandlys not quiet man. He make fight he will not win.” Jaryd nodded, unable to argue with that. “It is good. Today is a good day.”
Jaryd thought of the dead Tracatans on the road, but he knew what Asym meant. They were outnumbered, and slowed by their defence of this column of civilians. The cause was good, and the Elissians would surely return in far larger numbers. The opportunities for glory were high, posthumously or otherwise.
“You should have kaspi,” said Asym, looking thoughtfully at Jaryd's bare torso. Tattoos, he meant. Goeren-yai markings. “So that the spirits shall recognise you when you die.”
Jaryd smiled faintly, chewing an apple. “What if I don't plan on dying soon?”
“Elissians may have other idea.” Jaryd laughed. “But besides, you die someday. The great spirits recognise me when I die, take me back to Isfayen, to the high meadows. There is great view there, maybe I see a new place to be reborn.”
“You are a shepherd, yes?”
Asym nodded. “As a boy, I take flocks from low pasture to high in spring. The snow melts, and the grass is green. I watch sheep amongst the clouds, and practise my swordwork. Here, I am far from home, but I think of the high pasture and I am happy. These,” and he tapped the tattoos, “these will take me there, one day.”
“Perhaps the Verenthane gods will still recognise me,” Jaryd suggested.
Asym smiled, and clapped him on the shoulder. “You Goeren-yai. You great warrior, spirits all see you. And I will speak for you.”
A little girl with bright blue serrin eyes stopped before them and stared. In particular she stared at Asym, with his long black hair, markings, and narrow eyes. The two Lenays watched her back, with equal curiosity. She was no more than five, yet seemed to understand far more of what she saw than any human child of that age.
The girl's mother hurried over and collected her, then hurried off. The woman had not been serrin. Jaryd wondered where the serrin father was.
“These people are of the spirits,” said Asym. “It did not feel right to fight them. I worry for the spirits of men who died by their hand.”
“If the Army of Lenayin fights with Saalshen now, it means the serrin have accepted them and forgiven,” Jaryd disagreed. “If they can forgive those who live, they will certainly forgive those who died.”
Asym nodded, thinking on it, and uncorked a flask another local had pressed upon them. Ale of a kind, he'd said, made from apples. Asym took a swig, and offered it to Jaryd. Jaryd sniffed. It was fruity and strong. A sip, and nothing. Then a change, and fumes burning his sinuses. His eyes watered and he restrained a cough with difficulty.
Asym laughed and took another swig. They invited the Larosans to join them, and soon they were all more relaxed.
Jaryd walked in the evening gloom to the temple at the courtyard's end, a shirt donned for propriety's sake. Tracatans queued upon the steps, some holding candles as the night came on, hoping for a way inside. They recognised Jaryd-from the road he supposed-and stood aside with eyes lowered in deference.
The temple was attractive, like most town temples in these parts, a long paved floor between high walls. There was a priest conducting services of some kind, and a crowd up at the front where Sofy stood. Jaryd caught a glimpse of her, the Idys Mark still plain upon her forehead, hair covered beneath this Verenthane roof, blessing those who tried to touch her while fielding enquiries from several important-looking men.
Jaryd edged forward until he stood beneath an arched windowsill near the front. Upon the sill sat a serrin woman in plain clothes, observing the proceedings with calm curiosity. She patted the place beside her on the sill, and Jaryd leaped up.
“You fought well on the road, Nyvar,” said the serrin. “With Lenayin with us, perhaps we have a chance.”
“Perhaps,” said Jaryd.
“I'm Ysilder,” she said, extending a hand. “A jeweller.”
“No svaalverd?” Jaryd asked.
Ysilder shook her head apologetically. “My diamonds are occasionally used to sharpen svaalverd blades. That's all.”
“What happens here?”
“Gods know,” she murmured. Jaryd looked at her oddly. “Figure of speech. I've been in Tracato a long time. The people appear to believe there are blessings to be had. Your princess offers herself. Now she is cornered.”
“I would have taken her to Saalshen by another route,” Jaryd muttered. “But she saw all these people flooding out of Tracato and she insisted we help them.”
“She does seem that type,” the serrin agreed.
“I doubt we do help. The Elissians will be after her, and I don't think Prince Dafed will protest; he never liked her or this marriage. They failed to kill her when they had the chance, and if she survives she may spread embarrassing tales to the Regent of how news of her death was exaggerated by his allies.”
“They'll need to kill us all,” Ysilder said tiredly. “The whole column, and every village we pass through. To hide the truth. It's not beyond them.”
“Oh, I know that,” Jaryd said wearily. “I'm yet to be convinced that she does, despite everything.”
“She wears the mark of the wedded still,” Ysilder observed. “Does she think her marriage survives? Even should the Regent love her and wish revenge on those who have gone against him, there is no point now. Lenayin is gone for him, or at least severely reduced. And his revenge, if properly conducted, would split the Bacosh and thus his alliance, just when his final victory is at hand.”
“She swore an oath,” said Jaryd. Ysilder looked at him-a middle-aged woman, with weary wisdom in her gaze. Jaryd sighed. “Yes, she is that type. All Lenay girls dream of marriage, and the romance of vows. A man has a warrior's honour, a woman has a wife's.”
“No fair swap,” said the serrin.
Jaryd shrugged. “There has been no recognised divorce. A married Lenay woman who does not obey her vows forfeits all honour.”
“You're not in Lenayin any longer,” Ysilder said pointedly.
“You go tell her that.”