did not stand up to Cronenverdt. Now things are worse.”
“We rode to restore the king's peace,” Jaryd replied with a frown. “Peace was achieved, at a minimal cost, and now Great Lord Krayliss shall face the king's justice. How do you accuse Prince Damon of any fault?”
Lord Redyk's expression became faintly incredulous. “Any fault? Are you mad, boy? At this Rathynal, we push for power. For a full hundred years since the Liberation we have waited for the king to grant us the powers that King Soros promised our forefathers, but he has never seen sufficient reason to do so. Now, the king needs us for his lowlands war. He will grant us what we want, or else his conquering army shall be comprised of Royal Guards and kitchen hands.
“The great lords must present the king with a united face at this Rathynal to demand noble rights…and yet you bring Lord Krayliss, the very face of disunity, back into our midst? Are you mad?”
That was twice that rhetorical question had been asked. Jaryd bristled. “And that's your only concern about Lord Krayliss?” he asked coldly. “What about the Goeren-yai? You want to kill the last remaining Goeren-yai great lord, from the only province in Lenayin without a ruling Verenthane nobility, and you're not worried about the anger it may cause the rural folk?”
“Pah!” Lord Redyk waved a dismissive hand. “The pagans nearly came to blows just pitching their tents outside the Baen-Tar walls, arguing over the best camp sites. They're the last of our concerns—half of them want to kill Lord Krayliss as much as we do.
“They won't mind him dead, but they will mind him if he shames them! You know what the pagans are like, always falling over each other to make grand gestures of heroism, waving their cocks for all to see. Krayliss will defy us in our demands to the king, you watch. He'll refuse to partake in the lowlands war and he'll shame the other pagans into doing the same…”
“I disagree,” said Lord Arastyn, mildly, from Jaryd's other side. Jaryd suspected that Arastyn, unlike Redyk, was still on his first cup of wine. In his other hand, he held an ornate warhorn—one of the chambers’ decorative artefacts. He had been considering it, offhandedly, while the others talked. “The pagans want war. Perhaps the Taneryn do not, nor the easterners, for the serrin have long travelled to those parts and are admired there. But the west and the south have had less contact and see little of Cherrovan incursions in the north. These are warlike people, yet for a century there's been little but peace, save the usual, stupid honour squabbles between villages. Left alone, Goeren-yai will fight themselves. Those folk in the south and west want a glorious war to relive the tales of their ancestors. And to them, Lord Krayliss is as much a foreigner as the serrin.”
Jaryd knew that his father thought highly of Lord Arastyn. It was one reason why he'd promised Galyndry to his son. His family had been loyal, too. That was the other reason.
“The south and the west, perhaps!” Lord Redyk retorted. “But Tyree is neither south nor west, Lord Arastyn! Hellfire and floods take the south and west, the one place where Krayliss does have an influence is right under our bloody noses! And in Valhanan, where that bloody Nasi-Keth and his wild bitch hold sway, and in Taneryn with Lord Krayliss himself! And I tell you, in some places they may hate Krayliss enough to want to kill him, but if he stands up against a lowlands war, then none of them will suffer to be seen as a lapdog to Verenthane lords. I know these people, I tell you, and that's how they think!”
“If only our good friend Great Lord Kumaryn would have had the balls to move against Cronenverdt and his bitch earlier,” Lord Paramys muttered. “If she joins with Lord Krayliss, then there'll be trouble. Did you hear him call her the Synnich? What the hells is a Synnich, anyhow?”
Jaryd listened to them argue, but his thoughts were wandering. He thought of the girl, with her short hair, lively eyes and, it could not be denied, firm buttocks. As pretty as her sisters, when one learned to disregard the unwomanly presentation. And crazy as a fevered mule. But then, who amongst these men present, who called her names and wished for her downfall, could match her with a sword or on a horse?
Jaryd Nyvar