Bannagran put his head down and drew a deep breath. He knew the insults well enough, had heard Prydae launch them at women for a decade now. As ruler of Pryd, it was Prydae's privilege to take any woman in the holding, married or not, a tender child or an old hag, as his lover. "Lover" wasn't quite the right word with regard to Prydae, Bannagran supposed, for the scars of the laird's powrie wound would not permit it, despite the work of the monks with their soul stones, despite the many sacrifices of other men's genitals old Bernivvigar had offered over the years.
Inevitably, when he failed to perform, Prydae would blame the woman, calling her harlot and other similar insults, and "rotfish," a term usually reserved for a woman of no sexual imagination, who would lie still as a receptive, yet unmoving, vessel.
The woman, a pretty enough thing-as long as she hid her three-toothed smile-in her mid-twenties, came out on the top balcony and rushed to the highest of the four visible staircases, her clothing bundled about her, hardly hiding her ample charms. Her bare feet slapped on the wide wooden stairs as she scurried down to the next balcony, her face wet with tears.
Bannagran recognized her-he remembered the day he had taken her husband away to join a group marching south to battle.
She hardly glanced at him as she rushed past, sobbing at every step.
Bannagran watched her go, then looked back to the top stairs, where Prydae stood naked and half erect, his face red with frustration, his fists clenched in rage. "Rotfish!" he cried again, and he banged his hand hard against the wall, then moved back.
Bannagran shook his head and sighed, then moved to one of the chairs before the hearth and poured himself a drink of Prydae's wine. He took a seat and stared into the embers, some still showing lines of orange, wisps of smoke slipping out from the ash and drifting lazily up the chimney.
It was some time before Prydae came down to sit beside him.
"Useless bitch," the laird said, and he filled, drained, and refilled his wine goblet before offering more to Bannagran. "A sound other than a whimper, a movement beyond her drawing of breath-is that too much to ask?"
"You were close this time?" Bannagran asked.
Prydae set his goblet down on the arm of his large, upholstered wooden chair and rubbed both his hands over his still-red face. "Better if the powrie had taken it all," he said, "and taken, too, the desires that burn within me."
"You seek the treasure of a dragon," Bannagran remarked, "and have found its footsteps on several occasions. Is not the hunt worth your time, my liege?"
"I seek the honey of a woman," Prydae corrected. "And have seen the sweets before my eyes and within my reach, and yet I cannot grasp them! Is not the frustration more than any man should bear?"
Bannagran chuckled as he brought his goblet up to his lips and tasted the smooth red wine from the grapes of Laird Delaval's western fields. "The honey will be sweeter for your wait," he replied.
Prydae joined him with a chuckle of his own, but they both knew that this was much more serious than the frivolous pleasures of an overamorous laird. If Prydae could perform-and he had come so close on several occasions-and produce an heir to the line of Pryd, then the politics of all the regions would dramatically change, and for the betterment of Pryd Holding. The only reason Laird Ethelbert had not named Prydae as his successor and heir of all his holdings was because it had become apparent that the line would end with Prydae.
Conversely, that fact had brought Laird Delaval to Prydae's side; and the pact between Pryd Holding and the most powerful laird in all Honce was quite specific: when the line of Pryd ended, Delaval or his heirs would annex Pryd Holding, by contract and treaty.
A son to Laird Prydae could change the dynamics all across southern Honce, and positively on every account for Pryd Holding.
"How much less would be the frustration if the coals below weren't showing signs of fiery life," Bannagran said. He knew that he was, perhaps, the only man who could speak in such a manner to proud Prydae, for he alone knew the intimate details of Prydae's attempted liaisons.
"So close," the laird muttered, and he drained his wine, then moved to refill his goblet.
"Prince Yeslnik is fighting in the south," Bannagran remarked. "His banners have shone on the field-word has it that he is leading charge after charge."
"Your voice says that you do not think this likely."
"Prince Yeslnik is no warrior. Likely, his champions are riding forth in his stead, while he sits in the comfort of his carriage far behind. It would seem that outside of the small holdings, places like Pryd, the nobleman warrior is fast becoming a lost notion."
"Delaval was a great warrior, as was Ethelbert, who put his sword to the task only a decade ago, beside us in the east."
"Was, my laird," Bannagran replied, and he looked at Prydae doubtfully, for both of them knew the laird's last remark to be an exaggeration. In truth, Ethelbert's armor was rarely dirtied and never bloodied in all the months of their campaign. "Was," Bannagran repeated. "Among the lairds of Honce, I doubt that any could stand in battle more than a few moments before you."
"Ah, but in the bedroom…" Prydae replied with a mocking laugh, and he lifted his goblet in toast.
Bannagran didn't drink to that.
"Yeslnik will make a name for himself," Prydae said.
"Yeslnik's champions will make a name for him," Bannagran corrected.
"Can any less be said of Bannagran and Prydae?"
"Yes," the champion answered immediately and with complete sincerity. "The name of Bannagran is known-not once did Prydae claim the credit for the successes of Bannagran. Not once did Prydae need the achievements of champions to heighten his own claims to glory."
"You are kind, my friend." Prydae lifted his goblet to Bannagran for another toast, and this time, the warrior did lift his own. "There were occasions when I wore your powrie trophies as if they were my own."
"And more occasions when you wore trophies of your own victories."
"Perhaps it is nearing time for me to put the Behrenese sword to use," Prydae said. "Will we ride south, my friend? Two warriors, side by side, to help drive back the hordes of Laird Ethelbert?"
Bannagran paused and considered the words carefully, then slowly shook his head. "We will have all that we can handle should Ethelbert turn a portion of his force north and strike at us from the east. The work on Castle Pryd is not yet completed, and five thousand men would press us hard, even behind our walls. Laird Ethelbert has twice that to spare."
"True enough," Prydae admitted.
"You will find the opportunity to bloody the silver blade of your sword, I suspect and fear. Battles rage across the width and breadth of Honce." Bannagran needed yet another drink as he considered the truth of his words. All the land was in chaos. The roads had been built with the promise of greater trade and a greater ability to rid the land of the powries and the goblins. And at first, that promise had been realized, with the powries thinned to irrelevance and pushed to the sea, and the goblins all but eradicated throughout the land east of the Masur Delaval and south of the great Gulf of Corona.
But now the holdings were warring. Now Delaval and Ethelbert fought for dominance on a wide scale, while minor holdings battled over small pieces of valuable land. Even the powries had returned, or were beginning to, as reports of bloody cap murders seemed to increase daily throughout the land.
Bannagran drained his goblet. He didn't mind battle, didn't mind killing powries or slaughtering goblins.
But killing other men was something quite different, something that left him sour and empty.
25
Straining the Quality of Mercy It was a day like any other day. The same routines and chores, the same time for waking and eating and collecting the refuse from the previous night. A light rain fell through the humid early summer air, making the dirt clump about Bransen's sandaled feet as he staggered out from Chapel Pryd toward the river, a chamber pot in each hand.