of Tyree's eyes. “You put words in my mouth, M'Lady,” he said accusingly. “I meant no such thing!”
“You young Verenthane lords put words in your own mouths,” Sasha retorted, “and scarcely a thought before putting them there. Remember whose guest you are. They're far too polite to say so. I'm not.”
“Shut up, both of you!” Damon snapped before Jaryd could reply. The young man fumed at her, all trace of cool demeanour vanished. Sasha stared back, dark eyes smouldering. “Please excuse my sister, Master Jaryd,” said Damon, with forced calm. “Her tempers are famous.”
“And her allegiances,” Jaryd muttered.
“Oh pray do tell us all what that means?” Sasha exclaimed, as Damon rolled his eyes in frustration.
“I have many Goeren-yai friends, M'Lady,” Jaryd said, levelling a finger at her for emphasis. “None of them admire Lord Krayliss even a jot. You, on the other hand, seem all too pleased to rush to his defence.”
“I've heard those stories too,” said Sasha. “The Hadryn and their cronies have never been friends to either me or Kessligh. They accuse me of sedition, of plotting against my father.” She put both hands upon the table with firm purpose. “Are you accusing me of sedition, Master Jaryd?”
Jaryd blinked. Sedition, of course, was punished by death, with no exceptions. A person so accused, without reasonable proof, had obvious grounds for an honour duel. Those, also, ended in death. With very few exceptions. Jaryd started to smile once more, disbelievingly. No man about the table seemed to share his humour. Jaryd Nyvar, tournament champion of Lenayin, seemed barely to notice.
“No,” he said, offhandedly, with an exasperated raise of his eyes to the ceiling, as though he felt his dignity severely pained to have to tolerate such dreadfully silly people. Fool, Sasha thought darkly. “Of course not. Your tempers delude you, M'Lady. I have nothing but admiration for so great a Verenthane beauty as your own.”
“Tell me, young Master Jaryd,” said Teriyan, leaning forward with evident amusement, chewing on some bread. “Have you ever sparred against a warrior trained in the svaalverd?”
“As a matter of fact, no,” Jaryd said mildly. “The only two people so trained in Lenayin, I believe, are Kessligh Cronenverdt and his uma. And the visiting serrin, of course, but they never enter a swordwork contest, even though I have often seen them at tournaments.”
“And have you ever wondered why the serrin don't enter swordwork contests?” Teriyan pressed.
Jaryd smirked. “Perhaps they are afraid.”
“Not afraid, young Master,” said Teriyan. “Just polite.”
Damon strode angrily along the upper corridor, the Star's old floorboards creaking underfoot, as the sounds of merriment continued from below. Sasha followed, conscious that her own footsteps made far less noise than her brother's, and that their respective weights were only half the reason why. When they reached his room, Damon ushered Sasha inside, closed the door and threw on the latch.
It was a good room, as Lenay accommodation went. Four times larger than most of the Star's rooms, its floorboards covered with a deer hide rug, and small windows inlaid across the stone walls. Against the inner wall, two large beds, with tall posts and soft mattresses beneath piles of furs and fine, lowlands linen. Between the two beds, a fireplace, crackling merrily, and a small pile of firewood in the wicker basket alongside.
“Why do you have to go and do that?” Damon demanded at her back. Sasha walked to the space between the two beds, where heat from the fire provided some comfort.
“Go and do what?” she retorted.
“And this!” Damon exclaimed, striding over, reaching with one hand toward the tri-braid upon the side of her head…Sasha ducked away, scowling at him. “What in the nine hells is that?”
“It's a tri-braid, Damon. One braid for each of the three spirit levels. Don't they even teach basic Goeren-yai lore in Baen-Tar any more?”
“Because I'm Lenay!” Sasha shot back. “What are you?”
“Cut it off. Right now.”
Sasha folded her arms in disbelief. “Make me!” she exclaimed. Arisen from the dinner table, there was a sword at her back now, and more weapons besides. Damon, unlike Master Jaryd, knew better.
“Good gods, Sasha,” he exclaimed, with a sharp inhaling of breath. He put both hands to his head, fingers laced within his thick dark hair, looking as he would never wittingly appear before his men—utterly at a loss. “A year since I've seen you. A full year. I was almost looking forward to seeing you again…almost! Can you believe that? And this is the