Jaryd. “Lieutenant, who said anything about doing something about it?”
“My Lord brother said to keep a close eye on her,” Reynan said stubbornly, “and that's what I'll do. Make sure she doesn't cause any trouble.”
“She's just a girl,” Jaryd said shortly. “How much trouble can she cause?” And why, he thought, be so much more worried about her than about Cronenverdt? Cronenverdt held the real power, surely. The brat was just a distraction. A distraction for Cronenverdt himself, some said, in a meaningful way. A plaything for a man who'd developed strange tastes in sword-wielding women while amongst the serrin and Nasi-Keth of Petrodor. Some claimed he wished to sire a son from her, who might then claim the throne. Surely the nobles of Tyree did not believe such nonsense? There were so many before her in the line of succession, after all…
Reynan gave his commander one of those weary, superior, adult looks that Jaryd disliked so much. “Never you mind, Master Jaryd,” he said tiredly. “You just concern yourself with the road ahead, and leave the other business to me. Just remember to call on me if you need any advice—you're a fine warrior, Master, but older heads have ridden this road before.”
“I have plenty of advice from Captain Tyrun,” Jaryd replied, annoyed by the older man's patronising tone. “He's ridden these roads far more often than you.”
Reynan's face hardened. “Master Jaryd,” he said in a low, harsh voice, “that man is not noble born. He's a peasant, little better than a pagan…”
“Captain Tyrun is a true Verenthane and a veteran warrior!” Jaryd retorted in rising temper. “He rose from lowly status because he was the best, as is the tradition in the Guard! Do you question that tradition, Lieutenant Reynan?”
Reynan's jaw clenched. So that was the sore spot, and the reason why the other men disliked him. A lieutenant, after just one year. True, Jaryd was in command after a shorter period, but he was heir to all Tyree, and made no bones that Captain Tyrun remained in true command.
“No,” Reynan bit out. “I would merely advise, Master Jaryd, that you give some serious thought to where your future interests lie, for yourself and for Tyree.”
It was midday before the column took its first rest, the men dismounting upon a broad, open shoulder of the Ryshaard River. Kessligh and Sasha found a large rock in the river shallows and spread out their food, whilst Peg and Terjellyn remained on the shore with a handler. Horses splashed in the shallows nearby, drinking deep, and men gathered to share rations.
Across the wide, wild bend of river, cliffs rose near-vertical in a broken, granite wall. Atop the cliff, trees lined the high ridge. Above those, an eagle circled. Sasha shaded her eyes against the bright sun as she ate, gazing upward.
“Oh look!” she exclaimed. “That's a silvertip. She must have a nest up there somewhere. There must be good fishing in the river.”
“How do you know it's a she?”
“I don't. But Lenay men have this silly habit of assuming every dangerous animal is a he, when in fact the females are usually more dangerous.”
High above, the eagle cried. Across the riverbank, men were gazing skyward, and pointing. Goeren-yai men in particular had a love of wild things, and birds of prey had a special place in their hearts. “Do silvertip eagles have a legend to go with them?” Kessligh asked wryly.
Sasha frowned as she thought about it, watching the eagle's circling flight. “Not that I can recall. Although it is said that a white-headed eagle swooped down to carry Hyathon the Warrior away from the fire mountain to escape the dark spirits. But white-headed eagles are much bigger than silvertips.”
“All nonsense,” Kessligh pronounced, and took a bite of his roll.
“Why?” Sasha demanded. “Just because it's not what you believe?”
“Sasha,” Kessligh said around his mouthful, “if you'd seen as many people killed as I have, all because one of them believes this thing and the other believes this other thing, you wouldn't think it was all so harmless. Tales and legends are fun, but beliefs, Sasha. Beliefs are dangerous. Be very careful what you believe in, for beliefs are far more dangerous than swords.”
“And you believe in the Nasi-Keth,” Sasha retorted. “That makes you just as dangerous and misguided, doesn't it?”
Kessligh nodded, vigorously. “Aye. But the Nasi-Keth take their learnings from the serrin, and the serrin simply don't think like us. They don't believe in truth. They don't believe in anything they