He rounded on the other man, slashing once and twice. The defender parried with skill, urging his horse to leap forward, gaining space while twisting in the saddle to guard his rear. Jaryd jostled the other horse's hindquarters, pushing, not allowing it to steady…a sudden skid and the other horse went down, its rider crashing to the pavings as his seat disappeared from under him. A yell from the guardsmen, clear now above the screams and confusion of the crowd,
Jaryd dug in his heels and the mare sprang forward up the steps, skipping unevenly to find her footing on the broad flagstones. The two noble guards at the temple doors took one look at him and scrambled to safety. He reared the mare before the doors, her hooves lashing…and the doors crashed open.
Within, all eyes turned to look. Algery Temple was huge. Sunlight spilled through stained glass high above, scenes of the suffering of Saint Ambellion, of the mercy and justice of the many Verenthane gods. All pews had been cleared away for the wedding. The crowd of lords, ladies and their children stood along the centre aisle, stretching their necks to see what happened before the altar. Now they shrank aside, staring in disbelief as the ex-heir of Tyree, a blood-stained blade in hand, rode a frothing warhorse down the temple aisle.
Jaryd rode erect. Let them see his fury. Let them see his contempt. He wanted them all to know how little he cared for their ways, and their respect. The mare began to prance. He'd had no idea she could do that, but it seemed his legs and hands had unconsciously demanded it, and the horse had responded. Good girl. All around him, he saw more than disbelief and incredulity. He saw fear.
Ahead, before the altar, all of Tyree's most wealthy lords and ladies were gathered, garbed head to toe like preening birds. They, too, turned to gawk. Musicians stood to the altar's sides, instruments stilled. All mouths were open in silence. The mare's steel-shod hooves rang clear through the temple, echoing off the high ceiling like the march of vengeance herself.
A slow, mesmerised fading began, women pulling children back to the safety of the columns that lined the temple's sides. Before the altar, men pulled swords and blocked his way. Beneath the altar itself, Jaryd saw now his sister Galyndry, surrounded by a clutch of of women.
Opposing her was Harvyd Iryani-older and taller. Jaryd spied his father, Lord Iryani, nearby and recalled him dining at the Nyvar table, sharing laughter and wine with his father. Other men, other lords, their sons, their daughters…all had dined at his table, or played lagand with him and his brothers, or gossiped with his sisters.
Jaryd halted the mare before them and she reared, wary of all the drawn steel.
“Jaryd!” his sister cried. “Have you gone mad!”
Jaryd's eyes searched the crowd as he whipped the mare into several tight, wheeling turns, sending men scampering back from her dangerous hindquarters. This was a warhorse, and she'd been trained to kick when men with swords came too close. Then he saw him-Great Lord Arastyn-behind several armed cousins, staring in disbelief.
“You!” he snarled, pointing with his bloodied sword. “Treacherous scum! You can have your great lordship, you can wear that golden cloak, no matter how blood-spattered it be, I care nothing for the title now. But I demand revenge! You murdered my little brother!”
“Jaryd!” came Galyndry's sobbing cry. “Jaryd, no he didn't! It was all a big mistake, Jaryd…”
Jaryd whirled the mare once more. “How much did they pay you, bitch?” he roared at her. “Does all that gold and finery lessen the pain? Do golden coins truly soak up the pools of a brother's blood? Will you cry with pleasure tonight as you're fucked by a man whose hands are red with Tarryn's blood?”
Galyndry collapsed into the arms of her wedding brood, sobbing hysterically. The priest and his assistants, clutched their books and holy symbols, silent and pale.
“Jaryd,” came a new voice, more measured. Wyndal stepped into the open between the horse and the altar. He was grandly dressed like the others, slimmer than his elder brother, not as tall, and nearly blond against his brother's light brown. “Jaryd, you've no right to do this. A girl is married once in her life. You can't ruin it.”
“I came for you,” Jaryd said thickly. His voice caught in his throat. “I heard they were going to murder you too. But it was a trap. Wasn't it, brother?”
Wyndal's eyes darted. His tongue licked his lips. Jaryd stared in disbelief. Cowardice was something for tales and stories. An insult to be hurled in good humour or in bad. It was something that happened to other people. In the tales, cowardice afflicted the least honourable, the most arrogant, or the one who, in some other way, broke with the code. Cowardice did not happen to good people. It did not happen to one's brother, not unless that brother was a villain from the tales…which Wyndal, for all his and Jaryd's differences, was certainly not.
Jaryd wanted to throw the accusation in Wyndal's face, to scream at him, to berate him as he'd berated Galyndry…but somehow, suddenly, it seemed pointless. He was wailing at the wind. This was the world of lords. He'd never understood it. Wyndal, Galyndry and Delya…one moment they'd been of Family Nyvar, the most powerful family in Tyree, and then Nyvar's loyal retainers had abandoned them. They had no loyal peasantry, no standing army to defend the family name, just a loose affiliation of friends and allies kept strong through intermarriage. Lose a key ally, and have all the others switch their allegiances to him, and there was nothing to break the fall.
Jaryd could fight. Fight, and ride. It was all he'd ever been truly good at. Wyndal had the skills, but not the passion. And the girls…were just girls. What was he asking them to do? To die fighting? To surrender their necks to the chopping block? To add their corpses to Tarryn's and give him more siblings to avenge?
“You leave him alone,” said Delya, emerging from the wary crowd to stand by Wyndal's side. She was tall, his eldest sister, and wore shimmering scarlet, bare at the shoulders and lined with fur. Her voice was trembling. “Jaryd, it's not as you think-Great Lord Arastyn had no choice, the other lords would never accept you as heir.”
“Then kill me, not Tarryn!” Jaryd stared around at the sea of faces and the drawn steel. “Which of you has the balls?” He pointed his sword at Arastyn. “I've challenged you to a duel already, and you refused! I repeat my challenge! Prove to your people that you're a man, and not just a killer of small boys!”
Only the presence of his brother and sisters was keeping him alive now, Jaryd knew. There were enough capable warriors surrounding him, swords in hand. They could cut down the mare, and he would follow. But they would not do it before his siblings. The fear in their eyes was not fear for themselves but for their position and their allegiances. It was precarious to be a lord in Lenayin-to look powerless was to invite ridicule, to look tyrannical was to invite rebellion. Jaryd's lip curled in contempt of them all.
“Why don't you get down off your horse, boy,” came Lord Paramys's voice, “and we'll talk like reasonable men.”
Jaryd laughed. “Aye, I'm sure that's exactly what'll happen once I get down off my horse.” He whipped the mare into another fast circle, sending men once more scampering for distance. “Look at you all. Frightened little fools, each clinging to your precious titles like a drowning man to a log in a spring flood. The flood swallowed my family, and washed the earth bare, as if they'd never been. If the great Family Nyvar can disappear, how much faster can yours? I'd laugh at you if the spectacle weren't so pathetic. I've seen the real Lenayin. I've seen how men lived before wealth and titles and lust for power came and took their honour, and their courage. Those Lenays know you for the frauds that you are. One day soon, even your Verenthane countrymen will share that contempt, and then you'll have nothing.”