Lord Arastyn raised a hand, forestalling Lord Redyk's angry reply. Arastyn had always been loyal to Family Nyvar, his eldest son was to wed Jaryd's sister, and he had been a close friend to the late Great Lord Aystin Nyvar. Damon stared closely at the man. Had his loyalty been a lie? Or had he chosen this path simply to save his own skin, and the skins of his family? Some rumours said that his fellow lords had chosen him to be the successor because it would look less suspicious for a friend of the dying great lord to take his place. Surely such an old, loyal friend could not have ordered the destruction of Family Nyvar?
“The king has asked for an explanation of events,” said Lord Arastyn, in calm, measured tones. “You were present, Your Highness, at the folly of the traitor and murderer Jaryd Nyvar. Your answers will be required.”
Damon could barely restrain his anger. “You killed his little brother,” he retorted. “Dare you call him a murderer?”
“Our actions were within the king's law,” Arastyn replied, with stony calm. “An accident occurred. The boy was foolish. It is regrettable, yet the fact remains that Jaryd Nyvar's actions were traitorous, and they were murder. You were unwise to prevent us from killing him, Prince Damon. Your own actions shall be considered before the king's justice. Best that you consider your own position.”
“How can a man be a murderer when he charges thirty armed nobles all alone?” Myklas asked suddenly. “Were the men he killed unarmed?”
“It was against the king's law,” Arastyn insisted, “and therefore murder.”
“Sounds like a damn brave man to me,” said Myklas. Lord Redyk looked uncomfortable. Lord Arastyn seemed to grind his teeth. Damon nearly smiled. Myklas had that damnably annoying habit of saying what he thought. Usually that was no problem, because usually he didn't think much.
“I shall answer my father's enquiries as I see fit,” Damon told the lords, coldly. “Appeals and treaties shall not sway me. I have better things to worry about than Tyree's succession, my lords. Good day.”
“Pack of cowards,” Myklas observed once the Tyree lords had departed and the princes were riding downhill toward the king's column. “I'm glad you saved Jaryd Nyvar, he is a good fighter and I can't see what he did wrong.”
“Toward the throne, nothing,” said Damon. “Toward his peers in Tyree, everything. But tell me this…back there, you said that Fyden sergeant should shut up and respect his superiors because nobility is always right. And now you think the Tyree lords are a pack of cowards. How can both be true?”
Myklas thought about it for a moment. A gust of cold wind caught at his typically unkempt brown hair. He had a face that would always remain young, Damon suspected, even when his body was grown. Sofy said that Myklas's greatest ambition was to remain a kid forever. People liked him because he was usually positive and had a simple, good-humoured and relaxed view of things. Damon often wondered what sort of man he'd become when he discovered that such an attitude would only take him so far.
“Why does everything have to be so complicated?” Myklas wondered aloud, finally.
“You can ask that question all you like,” Damon said grimly, “and it won't make the world any less complicated. We can only accept that it is, and go from there.”
“You're enjoying this,” Myklas observed, watching his elder brother with a glint of mischief. “Crises suit you, all dark and foreboding.”
“Shut up or I'll belt you,” Damon snorted.
Soldiers were staring at the king's procession. If the king had emerged from within the Baen-Tar walls, surely things were bad. A short distance to one side, Damon saw Koenyg, all in black astride his chestnut stallion. He was involved in an angry exchange of waving hands and pointing. The nobles who were the targets of his rage remained stonily unimpressed. Finally Koenyg reined about in exasperation and rode away, his Royal Guards in pursuit.
He spotted Damon and Myklas descending the slope along the paddock road and turned uphill to meet them. He arrived at Damon's side with a thunder of hooves and an angry scowl.
“Can you believe it?” he exclaimed to his brothers. “Father insists we ride at once. I tried to explain to him that it would be better to wait for Lord Parabys to reach us, take the time to prepare and then depart together…but suddenly Father fancies himself a commander!”