this alliance, and the holy Bacosh shall be freed from pagans and demons alike and the holy Bacosh throne shall be restored to its former glory. Such a great destiny is worthy of some small personal sacrifices, don't you think? And if the girl displeases the Larosan heir too greatly…well, he needn't actually bed with her, need he? I'm certain that, in a civilised kingdom such as your own…other arrangements could be found?”
Jaryd stood atop the great Baen-Tar walls by the main gate, watching the steady flow of Rathynal traffic. All entering the city, be they farmers on their carts, or townsfolk afoot, or nobility on horses, were being thoroughly searched by wary soldiers with drawn weapons—northerners, Jaryd saw, looking down on them.
“They're searching for weapons?” Jaryd asked Captain Tyrun, who stood on the wall beside him, looking grim. “Who would be foolish enough to smuggle weapons into the city at such a time?”
“Not weapons,” said Tyrun, with a shake of his head. “Messages. Or maybe poisons.”
“Even if there were Goeren-yai who'd take revenge for Lord Krayliss,” Jaryd countered, “I couldn't imagine them being so subtle. Goeren-yai take revenge by chopping necks with swords. Anything else is dishonourable.” His arm throbbed in its sling, and he felt naked beside his men's chainmail, which was too much effort to don because of the injury. He worried for Sasha, too. His men reported seeing her leave on her big black horse, and there were no reports of her return. He hoped she hadn't done anything stupid. But then, knowing Sashandra Lenayin, that seemed a futile hope.
Jaryd exhaled hard. “With Krayliss gone, what'll happen to Taneryn? Who'll be the great lord?”
“Uncertain,” said Tyrun. “If I were a suspicious man, I'd guess they intended to decide that at this Rathynal. Only they thought we'd kill Krayliss when we went north and they'd just have to decide who to replace him with. Prince Damon only delayed things a bit.”
“Won't Taneryn get to decide their own great lord?”
“Seriously?” Tyrun frowned at his commander in a way that made Jaryd feel about ten years old. “How many provinces get to decide their great lord? The Goeren-yai are a majority in maybe seven out of eleven provinces, and how many Goeren-yai great lords are there? Only noble lords can decide to raise a great lord from their midst if there is no natural heir; commonfolk have no voice. Krayliss's family survived this long because the chieftains of Taneryn have always held great power and Krayliss's great-grandfather fought hard against the Cherrovan, but refused to convert. He was the only one.”
“Krayliss has sons…” Jaryd ventured.
“Huh,” Tyrun snorted. “There's an old law, Sylden Sarach; it means ‘judgment of clans’ in some old tongue or other, I forget. Old Corporal Cadyth was telling me about it. Under the old ways, a chieftain's entire family could be dissolved if his peers deemed that family's honour stained beyond repair.”
“Dissolved?”
“Aye, dissolved. The family heads executed, the children adopted into other families. King Soros kept that law, though it's never been used since. Mighty useful now, I'll reckon. They'll find a way to get the whole family out of the way, find one of Krayliss's enemies in Taneryn—and he has plenty—who's willing to convert, and there's your new great lord.”
“You talk as though you don't approve.”
Captain Tyrun shrugged. “Approve, disapprove…I am a humble company captain from lowly stock. My father was a stablehand and my sister married a miller. I do as the Great Lord of Tyree commands.”
“And what of the king's commands?” Jaryd ventured.
“Usually that's the same thing.” Tyrun gave his young apprentice a stern, sideways stare. “Pray that it should remain so.”
“Master Jaryd! Master Jaryd!” Jaryd turned to find a young man in lordly clothes and chainmail emerging from the gate guardhouse, evidently out of breath from having climbed the stairs fast.
“Rhyst!” Jaryd welcomed the lordling with surprise, as he pushed past the other soldiers on the wall. “I had not spotted you lately. Captain Tyrun, have you met Master Rhyst Angyvar? He's the second son of Lord Ignys Angyvar, he and I were sparring partners as lads, among other things.”
“Master Rhyst,” Tyrun acknowledged, with a short bow.
“What brings you?” Jaryd added, unable to keep the edge from his voice. In all the days he'd been back in Baen-Tar, Rhyst had not so much as said hello.
“Word that you are required urgently at your father's bedside,” the lordling replied. His young face wore the anxiety of bad news. “Your father has taken grievously