There were fifteen lords in all, Jaryd counted, out of twenty-three in all Tyree… but some were more important than others, and possibly not all had travelled to Baen-Tar for Rathynal. It was disconcerting to have left Baen-Tar in normality, with his family far away, and then to return three weeks later and find all these grand figures of Tyree nobility gathered and waiting for him. Jaryd's father sat on a chair before his bed, attired in a cloak of Tyree velvet green. His thin face was drawn and sweat beaded upon his pallid forehead. White hair hung limp around his face and there was a cup in his listless hand. His eyes barely seemed to register his son's approach.
"Father," said Jaryd, and bent to embrace him, then kissed him on both cheeks. It was shocking to recall that his father had only forty-three summers; Jaryd had seen sixty-year-olds with greater vigour. The air was overly warm and smelled sweet, almost sickly. "You summoned me."
"My son," said the Great Lord of Nyvar, his voice hoarse. "You return with Lord Krayliss in custody."
"You sound displeased," Jaryd observed. Wasn't that just like his father, to disparage every achievement with which he was even remotely involved? He had led the Falcon Guard, Tyree's finest company, into battle to restore the king's peace and his father remained unimpressed.
"You needn't have brought all of him back," said Lord Redyk, stroking his whiskers. "Just his head, lad."
"It wasn't my decision," Jaryd said shortly. "Prince Damon was in command."
"Oh aye," said Lord Paramys, his blue eyes cold. "And Kessligh Cronenverdt was only along to pick flowers from the roadside. Where is the great Nasi-Keth, anyhow?"
"With his uma in Baerlyn, I believe," said Jaryd. He hooked a hand into his belt near the sword pommel, his weather-stained cloak tossed back from one shoulder. It made him look good and he knew it.
"Prince Koenyg erred in sending Prince Damon," Lord Redyk growled in distaste. "He should have gone himself. Prince Damon lacks steel, no wonder he did not stand up to Cronenverdt. Now things are worse."
"We rode to restore the king's peace," Jaryd replied with a frown. "Peace was achieved, at a minimal cost, and now Great Lord Krayliss shall face the king's justice. How do you accuse Prince Damon of any fault?"
Lord Redyk's expression became faintly incredulous. "Any fault? Are you mad, boy? At this Rathynal, we push for power. For a full hundred years since the Liberation we have waited for the king to grant us the powers that King Soros promised our forefathers, but he has never seen sufficient reason to do so. Now, the king needs us for his lowlands war. He will grant us what we want, or else his conquering army shall be comprised of Royal Guards and kitchen hands.
"The great lords must present the king with a united face at this Rathynal to demand noble rights… and yet you bring Lord Krayliss, the very face of disunity, back into our midst? Are you mad?"
That was twice that rhetorical question had been asked. Jaryd bristled. "And that's your only concern about Lord Krayliss?" he asked coldly. "What about the Goeren-yai? You want to kill the last remaining Goeren-yai great lord, from the only province in Lenayin without a ruling Verenthane nobility, and you're not worried about the anger it may cause the rural folk?"
"Pah!" Lord Redyk waved a dismissive hand. "The pagans nearly came to blows just pitching their tents outside the Baen-Tar walls, arguing over the best camp sites. They're the last of our concerns-half of them want to kill Lord Krayliss as much as we do.
"They won't mind him dead, but they will mind him if he shames them! You know what the pagans are like, always falling over each other to make grand gestures of heroism, waving their cocks for all to see. Krayliss will defy us in our demands to the king, you watch. He'll refuse to partake in the lowlands war and he'll shame the other pagans into doing the same…"
"I disagree," said Lord Arastyn, mildly, from Jaryd's other side. Jaryd suspected that Arastyn, unlike Redyk, was still on his first cup of wine. In his other hand, he held an ornate warhorn-one of the chambers' decorative artefacts. He had been considering it, offhandedly, while the others talked. "The pagans want war. Perhaps the Taneryn do not, nor the easterners, for the serrin have long travelled to those parts and are admired there. But the west and the south have had less contact and see little of Cherrovan incursions in the north. These are warlike people, yet for a century there's been little but peace, save the usual, stupid honour-squabbles between villages. Left alone, Goeren-yai will fight themselves. Those folk in the south and west want a glorious war to relive the tales of their ancestors. And to them, Lord Krayliss is as much a foreigner as the serrin."
Jaryd knew that his father thought highly of Lord Arastyn. It was one reason why he'd promised Galyndry to his son. His family had been loyal, too. That was the other reason.
"The south and the west, perhaps!" Lord Redyk retorted. "But Tyree is neither south nor west, Lord Arastyn! Hellfire and floods take the south and west, the one place where Krayliss does have an influence is right under our bloody noses! And in Valhanan, where that bloody Nasi-Keth and his wild bitch hold sway, and in Taneryn with Lord Krayliss himselfl And I tell you, in some places they may hate Krayliss enough to want to kill him, but if he stands up against a lowlands war, then none of them will suffer to be seen as a lapdog to Verenthane lords. I know these people, I tell you, and that's how they think!"
"If only our good friend Great Lord Kumaryn would have had the balls to move against Cronenverdt and his bitch earlier," Lord Paramys muttered. "If she joins with Lord Krayliss, then there'll be trouble. Did you hear him call her the Synnich? What the hells is a Synnich, anyhow?"
Jaryd listened to them argue, but his thoughts were wandering. He thought of the girl, with her short hair, lively eyes and, it could not be denied, firm buttocks. As pretty as her sisters, when one learned to disregard the unwomanly presentation. And crazy as a fevered mule. But then, who amongst these men present, who called her names and wished for her downfall, could match her with a sword or on a horse?
Jaryd Nyvar did not know much about a lot of things, but he knew honour. His father thought him a simpleton, and had often wondered aloud what he'd done to so displease the gods that they would give him a dunce for an heir. Jaryd had never excelled in studies. Written words still troubled him, and numbers moreso. An heir to the Great Lordship of Tyree would need such skills, he was often told. He was clever with a sword, a genius on a horse, and had surprised even himself with his gifts as an artist. The latter skill he'd been too embarrassed to practise, lest the other noble boys laugh at such girlish pursuits… but his tutors had noticed. He was obviously intelligent, they said. He was just lazy. He was not applying himself hard enough. His head was so full of horses, swordwork and pretty girls that he had lost all sense of priorities.
He'd become so tired of hearing those accusations that he'd decided he might as well make them true. At least that way he'd have a little fun.
He'd discovered soon enough that the commonfolk didn't care whether he could recite Torovan poets or make sense of the taxman's books. To them, he was a hero, something he'd enjoyed vastly more than being a dunce. Noble boys were more wary, aware of his father's concerns, which were therefore also their fathers' concerns. Some of them had teased him about his lack of scholarly skill, for which Jaryd had mercilessly tormented them in the practice yard or on the lagand field. They hadn't liked that, but Jaryd hadn't cared. He was heir to the Great Lordship of Tyree and could best them at all the things that should truly matter of a young Lenay man. What were they going to do about it?