Sasha (50 page)

“Rhyst!” Jaryd welcomed the lordling with surprise, as he pushed past the other soldiers on the wall. “I had not spotted you lately. Captain Tyrun, have you met Master Rhyst Angyvar? He's the second son of Lord Ignys Angyvar, he and I were sparring partners as lads, among other things.”

“Master Rhyst,” Tyrun acknowledged, with a short bow.

“What brings you?” Jaryd added, unable to keep the edge from his voice. In all the days he'd been back in Baen-Tar, Rhyst had not so much as said hello.

“Word that you are required urgently at your father's bedside,” the lordling replied. His young face wore the anxiety of bad news. “Your father has taken grievously ill, Jaryd. It doesn't look good, I'm sorry.”

Jaryd stared, his heart thumping unpleasantly hard in his chest. Now? Of all the times, his father had to pick
now
?

“Best you go, lad,” Tyrun said, with as close to a gentle tone as Jaryd had ever heard him use. “We'll hold the wall for your return.”

Jaryd nodded and followed his old friend back to the guardhouse. His guardsmen looked at him as he passed; the nearest ones, who had overheard, with sympathy and concern.

“I'm sorry I did not visit when you were injured,” Rhyst said anxiously as they strode across the vast, paved expanse of Soros Square. “I wished to, but…well, it's Rathynal. You know how it is, my mother introduces me to girl after girl, and my uncles invite me to feast after feast…I swear I never knew how many relatives and marriage prospects I had until now.”

“That's okay.” Jaryd gazed at the statue of the Angel of Mercy, looming in the square's centre ahead, wings unfurled. Where is your mercy today, angel? For Lord Krayliss, the people of Taneryn, or for me? “What do the healers say is the problem?”

“He has a fever and the sweats. He is incoherent and his pulse is far too rapid and faint.”

“Do the lords gather?” Jaryd asked through gritted teeth.

“They do. My father among them…he sent me to bring you.”

The day felt somehow surreal. As they moved together up the main palace steps, Jaryd noticed one of the Royal Guardsmen on duty by the grand doors staring at him. Another did also, then snapped his gaze forward when Jaryd looked at him. Evidently things were bad if the duty guardsmen were staring.

Glancing sideways at Rhyst, he noted the young man biting his lip as he walked. Of course he was anxious, escorting the great-lord-in-waiting to his dying father's bedside. But still…“Is there something else amiss?” he asked. One of the lords making trouble, he thought darkly. Even now, at such a time, they would not be able to restrain themselves.

“Something else?” Rhyst asked. “No, nothing else.” Something about his manner felt odd. The young man's tone and expression were neutral, tinged with anxiety and concern for the situation…and yet. Jaryd recalled an old memory—Rhyst the popular, good-looking boy with the golden tongue. Rhyst had been his friend to his face, but then, later on, he'd overheard him making snide remarks about the “dunce of Tyree” to the other noble children, to much amusement from all.

Up the end of the Great Hall, rows of chairs were arranged beneath the great mural dome high above. There, Lord Krayliss had made his grand pronouncement and led his men from the hall in the uproar. There, he had signed his death warrant.

Jaryd noticed a man approaching from the left, aged and bald and dressed in the rough work clothes of a groundsman. He was glancing around nervously and heading straight toward them. Jaryd frowned. The man wore rings in his ears and his sharp, weathered face bore the faded marks of the Goeren-yai quill.

“My Lord,” he called hoarsely, looking straight at Jaryd. “My Lord, please, don't go upstairs.”

Jaryd sensed Rhyst stiffen with alarm. “Get away, stupid old fool!” he snapped, grasping Jaryd's good right arm to pull him past. A pair of young nobles appeared further down at a run. They stopped, stared about, then spotted the old man, Jaryd and Rhyst. They started running toward them.

“Don't go upstairs?” Jaryd asked incredulously, pulling against Rhyst's grip on his arm. “Why not? What in all the hells is going on?”

“Stop that old man!” yelled one of the approaching nobles. “He's armed! He means to kill Master Jaryd!”

“Kill me?” Jaryd had time to think in disbelief as Rhyst pulled his sword. “He could barely wield a hoe, let alone a blade.” He shoved Rhyst aside and pulled his own sword. “What's going on?” he demanded of the old man as the running men came closer.

“Master,” the old man rasped, with little apparent fear, “they killed your brother. I saw it with my own eyes…”

“Silence you!” Rhyst shouted, brandishing his weapon, but Jaryd stepped into his way. He could not speak. He stared at Rhyst, whose eyes were now wary, perhaps fearful. The running men arrived, slowing to a jog, then a walk.

“They took the boy from his class in the garden courtyard,” the old man continued. “I tend the gardens there, I saw them grab him. But the boy was fast, he had a little blade—a knife, so long,” he indicated with his hands, “a silver ornament on the hilt. He stabbed one man, and that man lost his temper and killed him.”

Tarryn. He was talking about Tarryn. No. Tarryn could not be dead. Not his little brother. How could anyone kill Tarryn? Just the other day, Sasha had kissed his cheek and called him a darling. Everyone liked Tarryn…of course everyone liked Tarryn, who could possibly want to kill…

Rhyst, he realised, was just staring at him, not denying a thing. The tip of his tongue protruded from one corner of his mouth, anxiety now battling fear in his eyes. Jaryd recognised the expression—Rhyst had worn it when sparring against him as a boy, deciding whether or not to attack.

“Put the sword down,” one of the new arrivals said and Jaryd saw their swords were also drawn. The old man wisely backed away. “Put it down and we'll talk about…”

Jaryd lunged and swung, one-handed, clashing the man's sword from his hand. The man cursed, leaping backward, and Jaryd swung at the other, who parried twice, desperately, as Jaryd retreated for a side hallway. Rhyst circled and tried to come at him from the side, then backed up quickly as Jaryd swung at him, fear in his eyes. Even one-handed, still they feared him. They always had. Maybe that was why…perhaps that was why they…

Jaryd turned and ran. His arm shrieked in agony, but he didn't care. He raced past several nobles and servants in the side hall. Footsteps pursued, voices echoed off the high ceiling, a general alarm being raised. Royal Guardsmen appeared ahead, weapons drawn, and Jaryd turned up a staircase, taking steps three at a time. He should not be going up, the thought occurred to him. On the ground floor or below, he might escape. But he continued up the flights regardless.

The sling slowed his ascent and his nearest pursuer was nearly upon him. Jaryd stopped abruptly, lunged back and swung. Rhyst partly deflected the blow, yet caught the blade to the face anyhow and fell to the flagstones screaming. The next pursuer stopped to attend him and Jaryd ran onward. He realised he was crying, tears wetting his face as he ran, and not from the pain in his arm. Tarryn was dead. They'd killed his little brother. It was a pain too big to be borne by one man. It needed to be shared. He would share it with them all. They too would feel this pain. All of them.

He reached the grand staircase to the palace's top floor without quite knowing how he'd reached it. There were men he recognised on the staircase, their figures outlined against the grand, two-storey windows. Their blades were drawn in response to the commotion approaching from below.

Jaryd charged up the stairs with a roar, forcing one into a stumbling retreat. The man lost balance and fell, Jaryd leaping over him to swing at the next, who backed away, parrying furiously. Then a third, whose defence crumbled beneath Jaryd's furious stroke, clutched his arm as Jaryd's blade bit deep. Agony slashed Jaryd's left thigh…the first fallen man had slashed from a downstairs crouch, and now the second took the chance to charge. Jaryd smashed his swing aside in fury and his counterslash sent him spinning to flop down the stone stairs in a bloody tangle of limbs.

Jaryd staggered up the rest of the stairs, dragging his uncooperative leg. His left arm had somehow torn free of its sling, the bandaged forearm screaming, a pain now dimmed by his leg. Beside the pain in his heart, both were as nothing.

Ahead, the hall to his father's chambers was filled with Tyree nobility, weapons drawn and eyes staring in disbelief. Jaryd charged them all, with no more regrets than that his bloody leg and broken arm would prevent him from showing them his best. Blades clashed and he drove back one man, then another, as men retreated before him, fear on their faces. The next man did not retreat and Jaryd split his belly all over the hall flagstones. They were all around him then, some approaching from behind, and he spun wildly in circles, swinging at all who dared his reach, grunting and yelling like an animal. He wounded another, then barely defended a lunge that slammed his parry back onto his chest and threw him sideways into the wall. He hit his arm, screamed, then fell against the wall, jolting his leg. The world went blank for a moment.

Then his head cleared and he tried to rise…too late, a blow struck the blade from his hand and then a kick found his leg. Shouts and yells echoed as he fell to the flagstones and blows rained down. A kick knocked him insensible, and then someone had a fistful of his hair and there was a blade at his throat. The cut did not come. He could hear voices, but not the words. There was an argument, and more yelling. He wished they'd hurry up and do it. Tarryn would be alone and frightened before the Verenthane gods. His big brother should be with him.

Soon, little mite, he thought. Soon. He could feel Tarryn near him, a warm, laughing presence. Comforting. Little mischief maker. He nearly smiled through bruised, bloodied lips. Why were they taking so long?

The cell was as cold, and as miserable, as Sasha had imagined it would be during her illicit childhood wanderings through this place. She sat on the bed—a wooden bench covered by an old, rotting blanket—and tried to be calm. There was a lamp flickering somewhere up the hall, flame dancing upon old, dark stone.

Her captors had allowed her to keep her cloak, yet it was barely enough against the chill. Her wrists throbbed where the bonds had pulled tight, and still the red marks remained. They had placed a hood over her head and wrapped her in the cloak, then loaded her onto a cart with other prisoners. The cart had then clattered up the central road of Baen-Tar—she knew because of the cobbles beneath the wheels and the jeering of locals, some pelting rotten fruit and a few stones. Hood and cloak ensured that no one knew her identity, or even that she was female. This secret, like others, would be smothered for a little while at least. How long that would last, and what the reaction would be when certain persons found out, she could not guess.

Her empty dinner tray sat upon the bed alongside. Plain bread and water, it had been. Perhaps they had expected a princess to protest, or to stick up her nose at such fare. In truth, she'd suffered worse upon the road chasing Cherrovan incursions. The tray sat empty, with barely a crumb remaining to tempt the rats. Or at least, she might have expected rats. But now, as she listened, she could hear only silence.

This, she guessed, was the oldest and most deserted of the old castle quarter. The dungeons remained the only part of the old castle still serving their original purpose. The old chieftains of Baen-Tar had made much use of their dungeons. Cherrovan overlords had ruled from here, and the chiefs of Clan Faddyn as well—as her own family had been known before the Liberation when Soros Faddyn changed his name to Lenayin to inspire the uprising against the Cherrovan. That Lenayin was now a better place could be seen by the number of empty cells stretching along vast underground halls of stone. The cold stone of Castle Faddyn's dungeons echoed with memories of bloody wars and ancient feuds long forgotten by most. Now, even the rats did not venture down here. A place so rarely occupied would offer nothing to eat.

There echoed the clank of a metal gate—the warden come to take the dinner tray, Sasha guessed. A light approached down the hall, casting new shadows in the gloom…and then—a surprise as the figure holding the lamp appeared, wrapped in a cloak with a long dress that swept the flagstone at her heels. Long hair framed an anxious face, eyes searching through the bars. Sofy.

She saw Sasha and ran the last few steps to grasp the bars opposite. Sasha climbed to her feet, slowly, not wishing a great scene. But she was very pleased to see her sister all the same, and delighted by her audacity. She only wished that Sofy's eyes would not shine so with moisture at the sight of her sister locked in this cold, dark cell below the ground.

“I'm well,” Sasha said gently, answering the unasked question. Sofy seemed to be holding back tears with effort. Sasha grasped her slim hand through the bars, with what she hoped was reassurance. “I was not hurt.”

“I heard you were with Krayliss,” Sofy said, voice hushed and eyes wide. “Anyse told me she'd heard you joined with Krayliss to smuggle a pair of Udalyn children into the city to meet father! Is that true?”