latch and stepped back for it to open. Kessligh entered, holding a wicker cage occupied by three flapping, clucking chickens.
“Ah good,” said the greatest swordsman in Lenayin, noticing the fire. He carried the cage across the creaking floor with barely a glance to Damon or Sasha, and placed the cage between the two beds. The chickens flapped, then settled. “These lowland reds don't like the cold so much. Makes for bad eggs.”
And he appeared to notice Damon for the first time, as the young prince relatched the door and came across with an extended hand. Kessligh shook it, forearm to forearm in the Lenay fashion. Damon had half a head on Kessligh and nearly thirty years of youth. Yet somehow, in Kessligh's presence, he seemed to shrink in stature.
“Yuan Kessligh,” Damon said, with great deference. “Yuan,” Sasha reflected, watching them from her windowsill. The only formal title Kessligh still retained, and that merely denoting a great warrior. An old Lenay tradition it was, now reserved for those distinguished by long service in battle, be they Verenthane or Goeren-yai. It remained one of those traditions that bound the dual faiths of Lenayin together, rather than pulled them a part. But Kessligh, of course, was neither Goeren-yai nor Verenthane. “An honour to see you once more.”
“Likewise, young Damon,” Kessligh replied, his tone strong with that familiar Kessligh-edge. Sharp and cutting, in a way that long years in the service of refined Lenay lords had never entirely dulled. Hard brown eyes bore into Damon's own, beneath a fringe of untidy, greying hair. “And are you the hunter, this time? Or merely the shepherd, tending to errant sheep?” With a cryptic glance across at Sasha.
Sasha made a face, far less impressed by the gravitas of the former Lenay Commander of Armies than most.
“Oh, well…” Damon cleared his throat. “You have heard, then? About Lord Rashyd?”
“I was just talking downstairs,” Kessligh said calmly. “Catching up with old friends, learning the news, such as it is. So Master Jaryd will live to see past dawn, I take it?”
Damon blinked, looking most uncertain. Which was often the way, for those confronted with Kessligh's sharp irreverence on matters that most considered important.
“It appears that way,” Damon said, with a further uncertain glance at Sasha. Sasha watched, mercilessly curious. “Please, won't you sit? I'll have someone bring up some tea.”
“Already done,” said Kessligh, “but thank you.” And he sat, with no further ado, cross-legged on the further bed, with the chickens murmuring and clucking to themselves on the floor below.
Sasha considered the study in profiles as Damon undid his swordbelt and made to sit on the bed opposite. Damon's face, evidently anxious, his features soft and not entirely pronounced. And Kessligh's, rugged and lined with years, with a beakish nose, a sharp chin and hard, searching eyes. Like a work of carving, expertly done yet never entirely completed. He sat straight-backed on the bed, legs tucked tightly beneath, with the poise of a man half his years. It was a posture that wasted not a muscle or sinew, an efficiency born of lifelong discipline and devotion to detail. And his sword was worn not at the hip, as with most fighting men of Lenayin, but clipped to the bandolier on his back, as with all fighters of the svaalverd style.
Damon sat with less poise than Sasha's teacher—or uman, in the Saalsi tongue of the serrin—placing a foot on the bedframe and pulling up one knee. At his feet, the chickens clucked and fluttered at the further disturbance. Damon looked at the chickens. And at Kessligh. Struggling to think of something to say. Sasha tried to keep an uncharitable smile in check.
“These are good chickens?” he managed finally. Sasha coughed, a barely restrained splutter. Damon shot her a dark look.
“Well I'm trying to broaden the breeding range,” Kessligh replied serenely. “These are kersan ross, from the lowlands. The eggs have an interesting flavour, much better for making light pastries.”
“You traded for these?” Damon asked, attempting interest, to his credit. It was Lenay custom that no serious talk could begin before the tea arrived. Poor Damon was horrible at small talk.
“A local farmer placed an order through his connections,” Kessligh replied. “A wonderful trading system we now have with the Torovans. Place an order with the right people and a Torovan convoy will deliver in two or three months. They're becoming quite popular.”
“As with all things Torovan,” Sasha remarked. Damon frowned at her. Kessligh simply smiled.
“Ah,” he said. “Thus speaks she