Jaryd staggered up the rest of the stairs, dragging his uncooperative leg. His left arm had somehow torn free of its sling, the bandaged forearm screaming, a pain now dimmed by his leg. Beside the pain in his heart, both were as nothing.
Ahead, the hall to his father's chambers was filled with Tyree nobility, weapons drawn and eyes staring in disbelief. Jaryd charged them all, with no more regrets than that his bloody leg and broken arm would prevent him from showing them his best. Blades clashed and he drove back one man, then another, as men retreated before him, fear on their faces. The next man did not retreat and Jaryd split his belly all over the hall flagstones. They were all around him then, some approaching from behind, and he spun wildly in circles, swinging at all who dared his reach, grunting and yelling like an animal. He wounded another, then barely defended a lunge that slammed his parry back onto his chest and threw him sideways into the wall. He hit his arm, screamed, then fell against the wall, jolting his leg. The world went blank for a moment.
Then his head cleared and he tried to rise… too late, a blow struck the blade from his hand and then a kick found his leg. Shouts and yells echoed as he fell to the flagstones and blows rained down. A kick knocked him insensible, and then someone had a fistful of his hair and there was a blade at his throat. The cut did not come. He could hear voices, but not the words. There was an argument, and more yelling. He wished they'd hurry up and do it. Tarryn would be alone and frightened before the Verenthane gods. His big brother should be with him.
Soon, little mite, he thought. Soon. He could feel Tarryn near him, a warm, laughing presence. Comforting. Little mischief maker. He nearly smiled through bruised, bloodied lips. Why were they taking so long?
The cell was as cold, and as miserable, as Sasha had imagined it would be during her illicit childhood wanderings through this place. She sat on the bed-a wooden bench covered by an old, rotting blanket-and tried to be calm. There was a lamp flickering somewhere up the hall, flame dancing upon old, dark stone.
Her captors had allowed her to keep her cloak, yet it was barely enough against the chill. Her wrists throbbed where the bonds had pulled tight, and still the red marks remained. They had placed a hood over her head and wrapped her in the cloak, then loaded her onto a cart with other prisoners. The cart had then clattered up the central road of Baen-Tar-she knew because of the cobbles beneath the wheels and the jeering of locals, some pelting rotten fruit and a few stones. Hood and cloak ensured that no one knew her identity, or even that she was female. This secret, like others, would be smothered for a little while at least. How long that would last, and what the reaction would be when certain persons found out, she could not guess.
Her empty dinner tray sat upon the bed alongside. Plain bread and water, it had been. Perhaps they had expected a princess to protest, or to stick up her nose at such fare. In truth, she'd suffered worse upon the road chasing Cherrovan incursions. The tray sat empty, with barely a crumb remaining to tempt the rats. Or at least, she might have expected rats. But now, as she listened, she could hear only silence.
This, she guessed, was the oldest and most deserted of the old castle quarter. The dungeons remained the only part of the old castle still serving their original purpose. The old chieftains of Baen-Tar had made much use of their dungeons. Cherrovan overlords had ruled from here, and the chiefs of Clan Faddyn as well-as her own family had been known before the Liberation when Soros Faddyn changed his name to Lenayin to inspire the uprising against the Cherrovan. That Lenayin was now a better place could be seen by the number of empty cells stretching along vast underground halls of stone. The cold stone of Castle Faddyn's dungeons echoed with memories of bloody wars and ancient feuds long forgotten by most. Now, even the rats did not venture down here. A place so rarely occupied would offer nothing to eat.
There echoed the clank of a metal gate-the warden come to take the dinner tray, Sasha guessed. A light approached down the hall, casting new shadows in the gloom… and then-a surprise as the figure holding the lamp appeared, wrapped in a cloak with a long dress that swept the flagstone at her heels. Long hair framed an anxious face, eyes searching through the bars. Sofy.
She saw Sasha and ran the last few steps to grasp the bars opposite. Sasha climbed to her feet, slowly, not wishing a great scene. But she was very pleased to see her sister all the same, and delighted by her audacity. She only wished that Sofy's eyes would not shine so with moisture at the sight of her sister locked in this cold, dark cell below the ground.
"I'm well," Sasha said gently, answering the unasked question. Sofy seemed to be holding back tears with effort. Sasha grasped her slim hand through the bars, with what she hoped was reassurance. "I was not hurt."
"I heard you were with Krayliss," Sofy said, voice hushed and eyes wide. "Anyse told me she'd heard you joined with Krayliss to smuggle a pair of Udalyn children into the city to meet father! Is that true?"
Sasha nodded. "Father did not listen, Sofy. He took Daryd, the Udalyn boy, and confined me to quarters. Your maid sent word that Krayliss had all but declared rebellion and I suspected Koenyg might seize that chance. I tried to save the Udalyn girl, Rysha… and I nearly got away. She's alive, last I saw, but I was too late all the same."
Sofy's eyes were incredulous. "But Sasha… you could have sent someone else! One of my maids would have carried a message! No one would have wanted the little Udalyn girl in danger…"
"I got her into it," Sasha said stubbornly. "It was my idea to use Krayliss's camp as a hiding place for her. It was my responsibility, and I could not be certain any message would be sent in time. It was faster to do it myself… and even then, I was too late. Had I not gone, Rysha would probably be dead."
"But Sasha, what a risk to take! Do you realise how much the Goeren-yai look to you? You are a great hope, Sasha, for so many of them… "
"And what would you know about the desires of the Goeren-yai?" Sasha snapped, in a flash of temper.
"I was talking with Anyse," Sofy said reproachfully, wiping at her eyes. "She hears all the gossip about Baen-Tar from all the Goeren-yai staff and soldiers. They talk of you, Sasha. I think that it's largely because of you, and your known dislike of Krayliss, that none chose to follow him on the field today."
Krayliss on his horse. The final, desperate plea across the fields. The raised sword, slowly dropping. Utterly unexpected, a lump raised in her throat for the tragedy of Lord Krayliss. It must have shattered him. A man who, above all else, desperately wished to be loved by his people. In the end, they had not returned that love. He had been selfish, brutish, bloodthirsty and, worst of all, he had misjudged the desires of the people whose hearts he had claimed to know better than any other. And yet, in that final moment of despair, he earned her pity. She knew what it was like to feel so utterly alone.
"Don't make me regret it," Sasha muttered. "I won't kick the man's corpse while it's still warm."
Sofy blinked. "He's not dead, Sasha." Sasha frowned in surprise. "He lives, though not for long. They erect a stand upon Soros Square even now. Tonight, there will be executions. All the Taneryn party who survived, including Krayliss. Perhaps ten, I think."
"He was taken alive?" That was even worse. At the very least, Krayliss would have wished martyrdom. For all his bluster, she could not believe he had shown cowardice. His bravery, at least, had surely been genuine.
"His horse fell," Sofy explained. "Or at least, that's what I heard. He lost consciousness. But he dies tonight. Koenyg was very firm." There was an edge to Sofy's tone, faintly cold and somewhat sarcastic. Disdain, Sasha recognised it. Disdain for the barbarities of what some men called justice.