now looked a little pale. Krayliss was picking a fight. Now, they wondered if they dared to accept.
“Lord Krayliss,” said the king, into that silence. “You have ridden to Baen-Tar to submit yourself to my justice. Yet you make grave accusations against the throne and against the throne's friends. How are we to believe that your intentions are just as you say?”
“The king's justice has a champion in the eyes of the Goeren-yai,” Krayliss rumbled. “Her name is Sashandra Lenayin. Her uman is perhaps the greatest warrior Lenayin has ever known. In the eyes of my people, her uman's path was guided by the great Synnich, the most powerful spirit of these lands. Now, we have seen with our own eyes that the Synnich guides the path of Sashandra Lenayin also. I submit to your justice, King Torvaal, on the condition that Sashandra Lenayin shall attend the proceedings and shall speak only the truth on my behalf. It is on her credit, in my eyes, that your justice rests. Nothing more do I ask.”
“Sashandra Lenayin,” said the king, “bears neither rank nor privilege within the king's law.” Sofy could have sworn she saw Lord Krayliss's eyes gleam, ever so faintly, as if sensing an opportunity. “But,” the king continued, “for the purposes of that ride, she was beneath the authority of Kessligh Cronenverdt, who was in turn beneath the authority of my son Damon. Your claim is valid, Lord Krayliss. When she arrives, Sashandra Lenayin shall speak for you.”
“My king is wise,” said Krayliss, with a slight, almost mocking bow of the head. “May my king sit upon the throne for many, many years to come.”
Jaryd Nyvar entered his father's guest chambers on the uppermost floor of the Baen-Tar palace and found all the lords of Tyree waiting for him. Lord Redyk, of vast girth and white whiskers, standing by the blazing fireplace with a cup of wine in hand, as usual. Lord Paramys, slim-shouldered and poker-straight, his long black beard almost reaching his navel. Lord Arastyn, to whose son Jaryd's younger sister Galyndry was due to be wed within the year—a handsome man with a big jaw and heavy features, yet clever eyes. Jaryd's gaze settled upon Lord Tymeth Pelyn, a wide, bald man with three chins and ill-fitting robes that struggled yet failed to hide his dimensions. Lieutenant Reynan Pelyn had been his brother. Lord Tymeth's eyes fixed upon the heir of Tyree as he walked across the flagstone floor, unblinking and unreadable.
There were fifteen lords in all, Jaryd counted, out of twenty-three in all Tyree…but some were more important than others, and possibly not all had travelled to Baen-Tar for Rathynal. It was disconcerting to have left Baen-Tar in normality, with his family far away, and then to return three weeks later and find all these grand figures of Tyree nobility gathered and waiting for him. Jaryd's father sat on a chair before his bed, attired in a cloak of Tyree velvet green. His thin face was drawn and sweat beaded upon his pallid forehead. White hair hung limp around his face and there was a cup in his listless hand. His eyes barely seemed to register his son's approach.
“Father,” said Jaryd, and bent to embrace him, then kissed him on both cheeks. It was shocking to recall that his father had only forty-three summers; Jaryd had seen sixty-year-olds with greater vigour. The air was overly warm and smelled sweet, almost sickly. “You summoned me.”
“My son,” said the Great Lord of Nyvar, his voice hoarse. “You return with Lord Krayliss in custody.”
“You sound displeased,” Jaryd observed. Wasn't that just like his father, to disparage every achievement with which he was even remotely involved? He had led the Falcon Guard, Tyree's finest company, into battle to restore the king's peace and his father remained unimpressed.
“You needn't have brought all of him back,” said Lord Redyk, stroking his whiskers. “Just his head, lad.”
“It wasn't my decision,” Jaryd said shortly. “Prince Damon was in command.”
“Oh aye,” said Lord Paramys, his blue eyes cold. “And Kessligh Cronenverdt was only along to pick flowers from the roadside. Where is the great Nasi-Keth, anyhow?”
“With his uma in Baerlyn, I believe,” said Jaryd. He hooked a hand into his belt near the sword pommel, his weather-stained cloak tossed back from one shoulder. It made him look good and he knew it.
“Prince Koenyg erred in sending Prince Damon,” Lord Redyk growled in distaste. “He should have gone himself. Prince Damon lacks steel, no wonder he