Tyree galloped onto the field. Banneryd came out opposite, fourteen big men on big horses, holding a perfect line. Cavalry men of the Banneryd Black Storm, as grim-faced and strong-muscled a selection of Lenay soldiery as one was ever likely to see. At their head rode Captain Tyrblanc, with a big square beard and a close-shaved scalp. He rode with a hand on one hip, straight-backed in the saddle despite his wide girth, and with barely a glance at his opposition.
Only as they drew closer did Damon recognise the man who rode second, with a Banneryd black and blue shirt and saddlecloth. It was Koenyg, as broad and strong as any of the cavalry, astride his favourite chestnut stallion.
The adjudicator waited astride his white horse with a ballskin dangling from his hook. He dropped it as the two teams lined up opposite each other, and Jaryd and the Banneryd captain dismounted to inspect it. The ball was a folded bundle of skins wrapped with twine and leather strips, about the size of a man's chest. Jaryd dug his hook into the folds and lifted, then tried the same with a hook through the outer straps and twine. Tyrblanc did the same, and both seemed satisfied. They clasped forearm to forearm, but if words were exchanged between them, Damon could not hear. Tyrblanc was the larger, and by far the more ferocious-looking, but skill in lopping heads was not necessarily the same as skill in hauling the ball.
The teams then lined up abreast, facing the scaffold seating. Archbishop Dalryn stood in his robes before the royal box and proclaimed the gods’ blessing upon proceedings. As that lineup dispersed, the Tyree Goeren-yai performed a chant in a tongue Damon did not recognise. The captains returned to the centre circle with several others, and the rest found their starting positions across the field.
Damon found himself starting next to Koenyg. His big brother smiled at him, the dark, knowing smile that only an older brother could manage, foreboding of future torments and humiliations.
“I'd thought you were busy?” Damon suggested, as their horses jostled and snorted, eager to be underway.
“Not too busy to teach my little brother a lesson or two in horsemanship,” Prince Koenyg replied. Damon sat taller than Koenyg in the saddle, yet he knew better than to take comfort in that. Koenyg was all muscle and determination. He was Commander of Armies now, Kessligh's old title, besides his usual responsibilities as the heir—defence of the realm primary amongst them. The king made broad decisions, but where force and strategy were in question, it was up to Koenyg to turn those decisions into action. Such responsibilities were the apprenticeship that would prepare an heir for the task of kingship. There were those, however, who suggested that the king had delegated too much.
“What's she doing here?” Koenyg asked, nodding to Sasha on the far side of the field.
“Her name's Sasha,” Damon said sourly. “You might recall her—little terror in a dress, always yelling?”
Koenyg gave him a whack across the stomach with the back of his hook, none too gently either. “This will be trouble for Family Nyvar,” he remarked.
Damon refrained from hitting him back. It was perhaps not a great idea to hit the heir in front of more than one thousand people. “You don't sound surprised.”
Koenyg gave him a sideways look as his horse danced and tried to rear. Koenyg knew everything that went on within palace walls, and many things beyond, that look said. If Jaryd had had a fight with his father, the heir of Lenayin would know.
Koenyg smiled. “You should have declared Krayliss in breach at Halleryn,” he said offhandedly. “If you'd killed him there, we wouldn't have this trouble here.”
“It would have cost lives,” Damon retorted.
“It may now cost more lives. You've heard Lord Kumaryn tried to arrest Sasha in Baerlyn?”
“I heard.”
“The great lords are relatively powerless, Damon, all save the northern three, and perhaps Krayliss. Their power comes from having their people united beneath their leadership. The others like Kumaryn are largely ignored by their own people. They insist the king needs them, but in truth it's the north we need. The north is strong, we must keep them on our side.”
“At the cost of justice?” Damon retorted.
“Most likely we'll have to kill Krayliss anyway,” said Koenyg. “Here or there, what's the difference?”
“Sasha didn't leave much choice,” Damon replied. “Krayliss threw himself upon the king's mercy after her duel, I could hardly refuse.”