"No," Krayliss said proudly, looking his king firmly in the eye. Another angry muttering from the crowd. "I am here on behalf of my people. The ancient people, the last of the true Lenays. It is we who are here to judge your law, King Torvaal. We shall judge it and we shall see if we find it worthy."
The king raised a hand to forestall the angry words from the crowd. His manner was calm. "And what expectations do you hold, Lord Krayliss, of my justice?"
Krayliss smiled a dark, unpleasant smile. "We in Taneryn have had a hundred years experience of the Verenthane kings, King Torvaal. A hundred years of Hadryn attacks. A hundred years of Verenthane cronies and sycophants raised to the nobility of every lordship of Lenayin, to the point where I stand before you as the last remaining Goeren-yai chieftain in Lenayin. I shan't hold my breath for your justice."
"If you have not cast yourself upon the king's justice," Koenyg said loudly from Damon's side, "then Lord Usyn Telgar's claims of vengeance still stand. Are you within the king's justice, Lord Krayliss, or are you not?"
"Aye, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Krayliss growled at Koenyg. "An outright invasion of Taneryn by the bloody-handed Hadryn to remove this mischievous Lord Krayliss once and for all? Behold, the heir Prince Koenyg! Not as talented as the great, departed Prince Krystoff, nor half as pretty I might add, but a great friend to the Goeren-yai of Lenayin is he!" His men laughed with raucous, ugly humour. Koenyg fumed. "March us all off to kill serrin babies in the lowlands, he would! Make us abandon our farms and our families for a good year or more so the Cherrovan can come raiding and the Hadryn can rape our women and steal our livestock with none of us here to do a damn thing about it!"
"That's enough from you!" shouted one noble from the crowd, as others yelled their disapproval, and suddenly the guards were more concerned with containing the observers than guarding the Taneryn. "Respect the king!" shouted another. Krayliss stood unmoved before the dais and gazed proudly about at the commotion he had caused. From his throne, Torvaal simply watched. The noise began to die, but Krayliss wasn't finished.
"Oh, you think I'm joking, don't you?" he boomed to the hall at large, sweeping them with his shaggy-browed stare. "You think I'm just giving the prince a jab or two? Then what by the spirits is he doing here?" Krayliss levelled a thick finger at Duke Stefhan. "Yes, you, you perfumed, limp-wristed wystych!"
Sofy's eyes widened. Sasha had told her that word-it was common to old Valhanan Lerei such as was still spoken in the valleys near Baerlyn and to the Taasti language of Taneryn. It meant sexual self-gratification, Sasha had said. Between friends, it was a joke. In the royal courts of Baen-Tar, it was dangerous provocation.
"Behold," Krayliss continued with glee, "a duke of Larosa-the most defeated Bacosh province of the last two centuries! The greatest losers in all Bacosh history!" At the duke's side, several of his men looked on with puzzled concern. Those, Sofy reckoned, could not penetrate Krayliss's thick accent… and just as well. The duke simply stared, dark and cautious beneath his fringe of curls. "Here in Baen-Tar for Rathynal! Fancy that! Recruiting willing fodder for your armies, are you, Master Duke? Please tell us all, what is the good Prince Koenyg's going price for the life of a poor Goeren-yai farmer these days? Three pieces of copper? Four?
"We in the provinces are not stupid. We know that the king's favour has swung with each heir. Prince Krystoff trained to be Nasi-Keth and loved the Goeren-yai, and so while he lived the king did also… until of course the northerners conspired to have Prince Krystoff killed in combat with the Cherrovan. All so that the good, devout, Verenthane Prince Koenyg could take his place! And now they get their reward! Don't they, Master Koenyg?"
Deathly silence. Sofy could hear the shock. Could feel it emanating from the very stones. She had expected another uproar, but there was nothing. The typical Lenay response to such dastardly accusations was anger. But this… this felt more like fear. Was that it? Were all these Verenthane nobles actu ally scared of Lord Krayliss now that he had vastly, enormously overstepped the mark of no return? Or were they only scared of what he could unleash upon them, and upon the entire kingdom? Sasha had said often that the Goerenyai would never follow him… but what if she was wrong?
Sofy found herself staring at a Royal Guardsman standing alongside Duke Stefhan, his eyes wary, a hand on the hilt of his sword. That man, too, wore the tattoos on the left side of his face and long, braided hair spilled from beneath his gleaming helm. So did nearly half the Royal Guard. What would happen to all the powerful people in this room if the Goeren-yai rose up in open rebellion? If the Royal Guard were split down the centre? If all the provincial armies divided along the lines of their faith?
Suddenly, she could feel the fear herself. Sasha had said this, too. Had said how crazy it was for there to be so few Goeren-yai left in the seats of power. Surely there was need for a calming, moderate voice to counter Lord Krayliss's provocations. But who? Aside from Krayliss, there were no Goeren-yai leaders left. The trappings of noble power were too Verenthane, and far too foreign, for the Goeren-yai's liking. It wasn't the lifestyle that they knew, or wanted.
Suddenly, Sofy realised what it was that Sasha had found so frustrating all these years. The Verenthane nobility had taken advantage of the Goerenyai's naive, rustic good faith. Distributing all the seats of power beneath the new, central throne amongst like-minded Verenthanes had been simple and convenient-the Goeren-yai had not complained and it meant that Verenthanes would not have to deal with their rural cousins' exasperating, uncivilised, pagan traditions. It had been so easy, and so rational, at the time. Only now, when the normally disinterested Goeren-yai showed the first signs of real anger with the throne in a century, did the price of those actions come sharply into the light. Now, the Goeren-yai looked for leadership… and found only Lord Krayliss.
Dear gods, Sofy thought to herself. No wonder many of the initially outraged Verenthane nobles now looked a little pale. Krayliss was picking a fight. Now, they wondered if they dared to accept.
"Lord Krayliss," said the king, into that silence. "You have ridden to Baen-Tar to submit yourself to my justice. Yet you make grave accusations against the throne and against the throne's friends. How are we to believe that your intentions are just as you say?"
"The king's justice has a champion in the eyes of the Goeren-yai," Krayliss rumbled. "Her name is Sashandra Lenayin. Her uman is perhaps the greatest warrior Lenayin has ever known. In the eyes of my people, her uman's path was guided by the great Synnich, the most powerful spirit of these lands. Now, we have seen with our own eyes that the Synnich guides the path of Sashandra Lenayin also. I submit to your justice, King Torvaal, on the condition that Sashandra Lenayin shall attend the proceedings and shall speak only the truth on my behalf. It is on her credit, in my eyes, that your justice rests. Nothing more do I ask."
"Sashandra Lenayin," said the king, "bears neither rank nor privilege within the king's law." Sofy could have sworn she saw Lord Krayliss's eyes gleam, ever so faintly, as if sensing an opportunity. "But," the king continued, "for the purposes of that ride, she was beneath the authority of Kessligh Cronenverdt, who was in turn beneath the authority of my son Damon. Your claim is valid, Lord Krayliss. When she arrives, Sashandra Lenayin shall speak for you."
"My king is wise," said Krayliss, with a slight, almost mocking bow of the head. "May my king sit upon the throne for many, many years to come."
Jaryd Nyvar entered his father's guest chambers on the uppermost floor of the Baen-Tar palace and found all the lords of Tyree waiting for him. Lord Redyk, of vast girth and white whiskers, standing by the blazing fireplace with a cup of wine in hand, as usual. Lord Paramys, slim-shouldered and poker-straight, his long black beard almost reaching his navel. Lord Arastyn, to whose son Jaryd's younger sister Galyndry was due to be wed within the year-a handsome man with a big jaw and heavy features, yet clever eyes. Jaryd's gaze settled upon Lord Tymeth Pelyn, a wide, bald man with three chins and ill-fitting robes that struggled yet failed to hide his dimensions. Lieutenant Reynan Pelyn had been his brother. Lord Tymeth's eyes fixed upon the heir of Tyree as he walked across the flagstone floor, unblinking and unreadable.