Tracato: A Trial of Blood and Steel Book Three (30 page)

Perhaps her brother Wylfred was right, Sofy thought. Perhaps she had been corrupted by Sasha’s influence over the years. Sofy knew there had been such hopes for her, the darling youngest princess, the apple of her father’s eye. But now her father was marrying her off to a strange man for the cause of a foreign war she had no interest in fighting. What she’d done with Jaryd, that half year before on the return road from Algery, had felt good. And it had
been
her
mistake, if mistake it had been. Something of her very own, that no one could now take from her. Soon, there would be few enough of those.

But it bothered her, now, that she had not made more of an effort to see him. It would have been impossible, of course, with so many eyes upon them, but that did not stop her from fretting. Did he think of her? It was foolish to hope so, the number of women bedded by Jaryd Nyvar was more worthy of a serrin than a Verenthane noble. And he was most certainly not of a type with her, with a head full of swords and horses, and rarely a care for the passions of Sofy’s life—the arts, music, tongues and civil conversation. No, she thought—she was not bound for the hells, but it had been a mistake all the same. He was not for her, and was a landless no-name now, an impossible match for a princess. If the Larosans insisted on examining her virginity before marriage, well, she rode horses regularly and knew well enough (with more thanks to Sasha) that the activity rendered such examinations unreliable. A half year had passed, she was not with child, and none of it was any concern to her now—she was merely moping before her impending wedding, and wondering what might have been, at another time, in another life.

Yet still she thought of him, and remembered his smile.

Beyond the clustered horsemen of the vanguard, Sofy could see grand armies assembling to either side of the road. More feudal banners, rows and rows of horsemen, all the way to the gates of Sherdaine. Sofy could not tear her eyes away, a tightness growing in her throat. So many men. Such a powerful army. And all for her. The tightness in her throat was her old life dying. That carefree girl lay somewhere behind, in the distant hills of Lenayin. Sofy wished for her return, with all her heart, but that girl had no place here. That girl would be scared of this place. The Princess Sofy Lenayin could not afford to be scared with so much at stake.

Before her, the city gates opened wide, yawning black, beneath the portcullis’s rows of metal teeth. Sofy felt her heart accelerate and her breath grew short. Yasmyn clasped her hand.

“Be not afraid,” she murmured, “for all things shall end. Fear not the end, your friend and mine.”

Tullamayne, she quoted. Sofy recalled the other places she’d heard Tullamayne recited, most recently upon battlefields, at great funerals for the many fallen, upon the lips of warriors gasping their final breath. She exhaled a deep breath and felt all fear leave her, as like the spirit leaving a dying man. She was Lenay, and this fate was not hers alone, but borne upon the shoulders of countless martyred generations. She squeezed Yasmyn’s hand, as the carriage rattled on, and allowed the darkness to swallow her.

There was silver mist across the grassy fields as tens of thousands of men stirred in the morning. Jaryd finished his exercises, a mug of tea in his hand, steaming from the campfire. Baerlyn contingent, plus men of several neighbouring Valhanan villages, had claimed for a camp the land about a small farmhouse, including a track, some recently ploughed fields, and a small stream.

Lenay men greeted Jaryd as he walked to the paddock fence to see to the commotion there. He joined the men leaning on the fence and considered the cause of their amusement. Within the paddock, men were chasing an extremely large, ill-tempered bull. Or rather, the bull was chasing them. A warrior rolled aside as it charged, while two more jumped the fence, to catcalls and roars of laughter from the onlookers. The bull circled back on the man who had rolled—a magnificent animal, Jaryd thought, with huge, rippling shoulders and deadly horns, now lowered.

Jaryd’s laughter was cut short at a sudden commotion to his side, and he spun to find that Gareth, a Baerlyn man, had grabbed another man from behind and had a knife to his throat.

“I don’t recognise this one!” Gareth said suspiciously, peering at his captive’s face. “He was approaching you to the rear, Jaryd, and I don’t see him for no Valhanan man!”

The man held his hands clear. “I come with summons from Prince Damon,” he said. “He requests the company of Jaryd Nyvar.”

“I’m sorry about that,” Jaryd told the man, riding on the spare mount that had been brought. “The Tyree and Valhanan nobility all want me dead, to say nothing of the northerners. My friends keep an eye out for me.”

Prince Damon’s man nodded. “There is danger in crowds. Your friends are wise.” They rode along a road between fields crowded with the greatest encampment of soldiers Jaryd had ever seen. The ground before the walls of Sherdaine was a solid mass of tents, men and campfires. The air seethed with conversation, shouts, the clash of weapons practice, the whinny of horses and the rattle of armour. Cooking fires burned, and a mist of smoke smelled of equal parts bacon, green wood, and manure.

These were men of Larosa, Jaryd knew. Men-at-arms, for the most part—what Lenays would call militia, villagers and peasants sworn to regional lords, and pressed into service whatever their will. These men were poor, but they were gods-fearing Verenthanes, and did not relish the great numbers of
pagan barbarians brought into their midst…though Jaryd thought they’d have been no happier if the Lenays had only brought Verenthane soldiers. Worse, the young Larosan Prince Balthaar was to be wed to the barbarians’ princess.

Well, Jaryd thought sourly as he rode toward the gates, there were some Lenays none too impressed with the marriage either.

Prince Damon’s man presented the guards at the gates with a Verenthane star from about his neck, which the guards examined, then returned with a wave through. Beneath the portcullis, and onto rattling paved roads, and the commotion of city life on a scale Jaryd had never seen before. There was a great courtyard to one side, fronted by a grand temple, all in the same pale stone as made for Sherdaine’s walls. It seemed there was a market in progress in the courtyard, for crowded stalls did brisk business, and the cries of sellers competed with the bellows of a town crier for attention. The temple was spectacular, with soaring spires and coloured glass windows.

Past the courtyard, they rode between buildings of stone foundation, with wood-beamed walls and small, multipaned windows. The crowds were oppressive, housewives carrying food from the market, tradesmen hauling loads on donkeys, busy cityfolk of every description going about their daily lives, and clogging up the streets. Soldiers too, though they seemed more well dressed than most, and none were Lenay. Again, more stares at the two Lenays ahorse. Jaryd did not resist the impulse to ride straight and proud, and stare down at such men with disdain.

Damon’s man led Jaryd around so many corners, and down enough crowded lanes that Jaryd soon found himself utterly lost, and without clear sight of Sherdaine’s walls or towers. Eventually they stopped before a wide wooden gate, and the man rapped on a metal panel that slid aside. A brief conversation, then the gates were opened and they dismounted to lead both horses into a private courtyard surrounded by the facing windows of a wealthy residence. Here, it was peaceful.

Jaryd left the horse in the care of a servant and followed his guide beneath a small archway and into a second, more intimate courtyard. Here he found Lenays, nobility all to look at them, seated to catch the sun though shaded by the courtyard’s central tree, eating good food and wine. None paid the new arrival particular mind, laughing and conversing with animation as Jaryd followed his guide to an open door. Within, he found Prince Damon, sitting with his back to an open window, reading.

“Ah,” said Damon, looking up with a smile, and got up to embrace Jaryd. Jaryd was surprised, but returned it gladly. Damon had saved his life, in the hallways of Baen-Tar Palace, when the Tyree nobles had been about to
kill him where he’d fallen. They had ridden together to northern Taneryn with Damon’s sister Sashandra and Kessligh Cronenverdt, and Jaryd knew the prince to be no friend of his own enemies. He wondered what had inspired this invitation.

“You look well,” Damon told him, seeming genuinely pleased at that. “And beringed.” Touching the several rings in Jaryd’s ear, with some amusement. “When your hair grows a little longer, you’ll be a true Goeren-yai.”

“You look well too,” said Jaryd, not entirely truthfully. Damon looked well in that he seemed older than in Jaryd’s memory, and there was a look to his lean face that was more manly than Jaryd recalled. Yet much of that new age was worry.

“We grow older,” he admitted. “Koenyg assured me that it would happen, and I did not believe him. Please, sit.”

Jaryd drew up a chair. The quarters seemed pleasant, far from princely, but they were comfortable.

“Why are you not at the palace?” Jaryd asked.

“Actually it’s not a palace, just a castle.” Damon shrugged. “Sofy prepares. I’m little use to her, she accuses me of brooding.” His face fell, revealing a deep, troubled sobriety. “I’d thought as much beforehand. I sent men ahead to find me separate quarters. Being away from courtly intrigues can have its advantages, and Koenyg has tasked me with things that require a staff of my own.”

“That man,” Jaryd asked, gesturing to the door his guide had departed through. “Who was he?”

“Best you don’t ask,” said Damon. “He needs to go places and talk to people. If he is no one, that becomes easier.” Jaryd frowned. “One of Koenyg’s tasks was to help prepare the army for battle. He is concerned that for all our new equipment of shields and armour, our tactics vary from region to region, even from town to town. He warns that we need to introduce some uniformity to our battle plans, and I agree. The nobility are not such a problem, since most of them are cavalry, and cavalry tactics are more or less similar throughout Lenayin. It’s the Goeren-yai and the villagers, as always, who make the problems.”

Jaryd nodded. “I’ve been working with men of eastern Valhanan to improve our shieldwork and formations. I’ve tracked down any number of Bacosh men with experience of fighting the Steel. I think we’ve made improvements, but some men insist they don’t see the point. Luckily the headmen of Baerlyn have influence with the other villages, so they don’t argue too much, but not all regions are so lucky.”

“I know,” said Damon. “I need good men from amongst the Goeren-yai,
men who know different styles of warfare. I need men I can trust, Jaryd, and who will be respected by those beneath them. I’d like you to be one of them.”

Jaryd looked at him for a long moment. It was not a surprise, on the commonsense level of preparing for war. He was certainly qualified, and Damon knew that he was honest and loyal. But for politics…

“Have you any idea of the number of people who’d like me dead?” Jaryd asked the prince.

“A mark of honour, in this company,” Damon said drily. Jaryd heard bitterness in his tone. “Northern fanatics, limp-wristed Tyree and Valhanan nobility, I’ve no care for them. Have you?”

Jaryd blinked, trying to think. Politics was not his strong suit. He had only recently come to learn, somewhat painfully, that direct assault was not always the best solution to his problems. Prince Damon challenged him to do what came naturally, expecting him to follow his instincts. It would be
smart
of the Dunce of Tyree, however, to consider his options first.

“Not
fear
of them, no,” Jaryd said carefully. “But those men have great influence with Prince Koenyg, which shall surely be trouble for you.”

Damon frowned. “I’m a prince of Lenayin,” he replied, pointedly. “I make my own decisions. Your rank shall be captain. Militia captain, it’s true, but it’s about time we formalised the militia ranks, if only for sake of convenience.”

“Are you fighting with him?”

“With who?”

“Your brother. Koenyg.”

Damon stared at him. There was a darkness in his gaze. A power that Jaryd could not recall having been there before.

“Surely you hear rumours,” Damon said then, gazing away, across the room.

“Highness, I’ve
walked
here from Lenayin,” Jaryd replied, with sarcasm. “Blisters are my friends, I carry the tackle of a common soldier, and I’ve been as far from courtly rumours as is possible within this army.”

“I have no issue with my brother. I have an issue with this war, Jaryd. I lack no courage for a fight, but look around you. Do you see Lenay interests here?”

Jaryd nodded, and gave a harsh laugh. “The people are truly friendly!” he quipped.

Damon leaned forward in his chair. “I am a Verenthane, Jaryd, but this faith that we serve is not something I recognise.” His face was intent, his voice harsh. “They fear us, and loathe us, these people. It galls them that their failures against the Saalshen Bacosh have brought them to this—an allegiance with highland barbarians, and by
marriage
no less! One of those barbarians
shall be their queen, once the regent dies. Father and Koenyg may see the greatness of allegiance to the Verenthane powers, but all I see is our own Lenay fanatics hoping to use such allegiance to spread the faith in Lenayin and convert all pagans. To say nothing of your old friends the lords, with dreams of a feudal Lenayin. We are all being fairly buggered for another’s benefit, and I like it not.”